For Oaths and Blood: A Viking Campaign
by SpartiateDienekes
Summary: After the murder of their father, a clever young jarl, his charismatic and strong brother, and their fierce adopted sister must make impossible decisions and fight brutal battles to protect their family and keep their honor. Yet the more they fight they each must choose which is more important to them. Rated M for violence and gore
1. Prologue: The Funeral

The young man sat alone starring at the table. The light through the windows did nothing to ease the black thoughts stirring his mind. Two paths laid before him. One lead to his certain death, the other to steel and blood. No real choice at all, yet Fror still struggled to make it. He put his head in his hands but pulled away as he felt the sticky wetness that covered his fingers press against his cheek. Fror sat back and stared at his bloodstained hands.

The door to the storage room opened and the sound of familiar heavy steps entered. "Is it true?"

How long had he been in this room? Bjorn's hunt took him miles away.

"Brother! What happened?" A thick hand rested on his shoulder.

"It's true," Fror croaked, unable to raise his eyes from his hands. "Father is dead." Geirmundr's blood dripped off his fingers. How had he gotten so bloodied? It must have been when he carried the corpse into the hall.

"Fuck," Bjorn grabbed the ale horn off the table and tried to drink. "Empty?"

"I needed it."

"So do I," Bjorn walked back to the door, shouting to the servants for more to drink before returning to the table. His long blond beard brushed the table as he sat down. His rage twisted his usually handsome features.

Fror took a breath. He could not afford to just keep thinking. He would need to be careful. Bjorn never hid his feelings, but rarely let them control him. Only a handful of times had Fror seen him act rashly, yet when he did there would be no stopping him.

"Ivar," Bjorn said, his hand clenched into a fist. "It was Ivar."

"We can't be certain."

"Horsecock, who else could it have been?"

"Ramma Golden, Froki Fareyes, Alfhild-"

"None of them would have dared without Ivar's permission."

Fror opened his mouth to speak, but a knock on the door thankfully interrupted him. Fror turned from his stool and opened the door, worried of who would be behind it. Bester's wrinkled face and grey eyes peered at him. Fror breathed a sigh of relief. He could put off seeing his sister for a while longer. The old slave handed Fror two ale horns. Fror met the old man's eyes and noticed the tears held in his eyes.

"Is there anything else you need, Fror, Bjorn?" Geirmundr's old favored thrall asked.

"No," Fror said. "We need to discuss matters in private.

Bester nodded, then wrapped his arms around Fror. "I'm so sorry, I don't know what-" the man's words turned into a sob.

"Bester, we'll be alright. Please, find my sister."

"Of course," the old man stepped away and wiped the tears from his cheeks. He took a moment to collect himself, gave Fror and Bjorn a solemn nod and let the door close behind him.

"What are we going to do?" Bjorn asked as Fror handed him one of the horns.

"Bury father," Fror took a deep drink.

"I'm in no mood to deal with you trying to be clever, brother."

"I'm serious, we need to bury father. Ivar will demand that I renew the father's vows to him. If he suspects that we're not loyal he'll kill us."

"You can't."

"I will," Fror finished his horn and threw it to the table. "I'm the eldest, our king will demand my allegiance. And I will give it."

Bjorn stared at him. "You don't mean to keep the oath."

"No." To give an oath that you do not mean to keep is to be cursed by the gods. Doomed to Naströnd, the Corpse Shore, forever barred from a warrior's afterlife. A place reserved for cravens and kin slayers.

"Fucking Ivar." Bjorn stood up and paced around the room.

Fror opened his mouth to offer some solace, but no words came out. What could he say? The vow doomed him to the blackest death, but that would keep his family safe. His brother would still respect him.

"No," Bjorn slammed his hand on the table. "No. He will not take my father from life and my brother from the afterlife he deserves. Where is father's body?"

"The slave woman took him to the sea." Fror said. "Preparing him for his funeral tomorrow."

Bjorn grunted his understanding and pulled Fror to his feet. Bjorn dragged his brother behind him as they left the storage room. Bjorn towered over his brother as he did all others in their father's hall. They made their way to the shore in silence, passing through the dwindling fields of grain that surrounded their home. The brothers heard the slave women before they saw them. Freyrdi scratching voice sang the rites as the younger thralls worked clean the body. They stood in the water, one of Freyrdi's arms raising toward the sky, the other holding up her dress so the hem would not get wet. She wore a bright yellow gown, unlike the plain brown colors of those who worked with her. A gift from her master years before, when their land had been bountiful and Geirmundr held a place of honor.

"You two are not supposed to be here," Freyrdi stopped her song as the brothers drew close. "is unclean."

"Leave us," Bjorn walked into the water and grabbed ahold of their father.

The women stopped, looking between themselves and to Freyrdi. The white-haired thrall scowled and walked toward the shore. The young women rushed to her side, helping her climb out of the water. "Tell me when you are done. There is still much to do."

Bjorn hunched over Geirmundr. They looked alike, both imposing men with overlong beards. Though the water removed the yellow dye, revealing Geirmundr's white hair beneath. He had been so full of life hours before. Bjorn touched his head to his father's, tears dripping down his cheeks.

Fror simply stared at the corpse. He should have felt something, sadness, anger, guilt, pity. Something. But he could only look with hollow eyes as his younger brother mourned. Why were they here?

Bjorn wiped away his tears and kissed their father's head. "May the gods take you home." He waved to Fror. "Brother, come here."

Fror stripped off his shoes and stepped into the cold water. "What are we doing here, Bjorn?"

"I want you to swear that you will hunt down father's killer."

Fror shook his head, "You cannot trick the gods, brother. An oath to your jarl-"

"Here is your jarl! Your first allegiance is to him, until Ivar forces you to take his oaths. Swear it."

"This won't work, brother."

"It will, Odin values the clever and Freya protects those who love their family. They will understand. Do it, brother."

Fror's stomach churned, as he reached for his father. "Listen to me-" Fror's voice caught in his throat. His brother urged him to continue, a sad thin smile creasing his face as water dripped from his beard. Fror took a long breath, "Witness me, gods. I am Fror, son of Geirmundr, Jarl of Geirtvedt, the Troll-Killer. By the edge of my blade, by the rim of my shield. By Odin's ring on my arm, by the wood of my ship. By the blood of my father. Hear me. I will avenge the death of my father. I swear this oath above all others. I swear that Ivar the Wicked will die."

He unsheathed his knife and with a shaking hand sliced his palm. His blood slid down his arm and splashed in the water and Geirmundr's pale face.

"I promise you, brother. I will aid you in any way I can," Bjorn dragged their father to the shore. "That bastard's head will get raised on a spear, his wives and children put in chains. Tell me you have a plan."

"I do. You won't like it."

"Out with it, then."

"We're going on Viking."

* * *

Fror yawned and rubbed at his eyes, as the first rays of sunlight entered their hall. It had taken all night, but they finished the funeral arrangements. A jarl's funeral was supposed to be a day of celebration, where the wine and ale would flow freely. Where men would feast and grab a woman to bed if the mood took him. But with the recent famine the feast was sparse. By midday the guests drunk most of the mead, and the revelers needed to pace themselves on the ale or it would not last much longer.

Bester commanded other thralls to clean a spill, some precious ale wasted. The berserker, Rokr, sat alone with his drink, the rest of the hall knew well enough to give the young man wide birth. When his moods grew dark, Rokr found it difficult to distinguish between friend and foe. Most stayed close to Bjorn, who sang with the Bragi and his friends. His face reddened as he bellowed out the Life of Ragnar, overpowering the bard that Fror hired for the day. Probably for the best. Geirmundr never cared for bards, leaving their territory sparse of talent. The one Bester found was midling at best.

"Many empty chairs," Maeva's voice behind him made Fror jump and almost drop his drink. "Hah! Geirmundr would've hit you for that."

"Father hated weakness."

"Wonder what he would have thought of this?" She gestured toward the mostly empty hall with slim choosing for food and even less for drink.

"He'd likely be disappointed in me, as usual."

Maeva shrugged, "He was harsh. But he made his children strong."

"He was not harsh with you."

"I'm not really his child."

Fror scowled, "You're not going to start that shit again? I thought we got past that years ago."

Maeva stared at the corpse that lay across the main table, dressed in his armor, sword and axe atop his chest. "He treated me well, better than I could've hoped."

"He loved you as a daughter. He was not harsh with you, because you never disappointed him."

Out in the hall, the bard gave up the competition, joining his lyre to Bjorn's song. The noise swelled as the song recounted the battle between Ragnar and the Thousand Raiders.

"It's odd, isn't it?"

"What?"

"When my father died I did nothing. Now the man that slew him lies before me, and it's his death I plan to avenge."

Fror grabbed his sister's hand. "And we will. I'm a little surprised you didn't grab a horse to attack Ivar alone when you heard the news."

"I did. Made it as far as Whitewood before I realized that was a dumb plan."

Fror laughed, "I think we can think of a better one."

"Bjorn gave some vague words that you had a plan. Looked all too pleased with himself about it. Can't be subtle if his life depended on it."

"I have one."

"Well?"

The doors of the hall burst open, a crowd of men pushed into the room. A gray-haired woman wearing scars as heavy as her mail lead them. Fror's eyes widened. "Shit." He reached for his sword and cursed once more. All their weapons lay stashed in the pile by the door next to their unwanted guests.

"Alfhild!" the young berserkr, Rokr, snarled and knocked over his stool as he stood up. He reached for one of the meat knives strewn upon the table and charged at her.

Alfhild's men swarmed around her, placing themselves between the Valkyrie-Born and her attacker.

"Chain your pet bear, Geirmundrssons!" Alfhild pushed past her own guard. "This is not the day we fight, little one. No matter how much I wish to."

"Step forward crone! Keep your armor and axe. And I'll gut you with only a knife." Rokr's eyes bulged, and for the first time that day a smile split his face.

"Enough," Fror shouted. "Jarlkona Alfhild, we are in mourning, and you bring weapons into my hall? Explain yourself."

Smiling, Alfhild Valkyrie-Born stepped forward and looked over everyone in the hall. Her eyes lingering on Fror. She held her axe and shield above her head, the blade gleaming in the light. Was this some strange challenge?

"Seven times I faced Geirmundr Troll-Killer, either in a battlefield or on the holgmganga cloak. Most of my life his name has been a curse in my hall. When he beat me, I was left clawing my way to safety. When I thought I defeated him, he always found a way to slip through my grasp. And now, at last, my old enemy is dead." Alfhild's smile turned into a sneer. "Taken by some coward. Denied the death he deserved. I may have hated Geirmundr, but he did things the old way. The proper way. He deserved better than an empty hall while the cravens he thought friends hide away for fear of meeting the same fate."

She stepped to the side of hall and placed her weapons upon the meager pile. "Bring them in!"

Alfhild's guard parted and behind them thralls carrying wine casks and freshly killed pigs. Fror quickly counted them as they entered. It would not be enough to feed everyone for the full day, but every little bit helped.

Maeva gave Fror a light shove. "Your mouths hanging open. Say something," she whispered.

"Yes. Jarl- Jarlkona Alfhild, thank you for your generosity. You and your men are welcome. Feast, and celebrate your truest enemy. But for today, you will be considered our truest friends."

"Welcome!" Bjorn shouted and grasped Alfhild's arm. Behind him their guests mingled with Alfhild's warriors. Everyone seemed happy. Except Rokr, who returned to his cups. Likely fuming that he had not gotten a chance to kill anyone today. His mood would pass as soon as he took one of the slaves.

The men sang and played the axe dance. Someone set up space for a wrestling ring, and a tournament soon formed. Fror watched a few bouts, cheering for his men. None on either side seemed as capable as Rokr, with Bjorn whispering advice into the berserkr's ear.

"First your wife, and now your father. Death seems to follow you, Geirmundrsson." Fror turned to see Alfhild walk toward him, a large cup in her hand, filled to the brim with a dark mead.

Fror took a moment to hold back his anger. How dare the old crone bring up Medana? What did she know? "We must all face the life the fates give us."

"The fates have always loved me. It is starting to seem they don't much like you." She watched the wrestling ring as she talked, her expression changing with the fight.

"I do not wish to sound ungrateful. I thank you for mourning my father, but what is it you want, Jarlkona?"

"To see the measure of my new enemy. How does it feel to be the new Jarl of Geirtvedt?" Alfhild drank heavily from her cup. "Pathetic," she mumbled as Rokr pinned another of her warriors to the ground. "I can wrestle better than them. Your boy's good, though."

"I feel," Fror stopped. How did he feel? He had not really considered his new position in full. He only focused on the funeral, Ivar, and his family. "I feel, the weight of responsibility."

"Interesting, when I killed my last husband and became Jarlkona I reveled for days."

"Maybe rule suits you more."

"Ahh, flattery, tell me boy. Would you say I am beautiful?"

Fror looked at the scarred woman, father had always said she was as crazy as she was clever. "I won't lie to you. You were never known as a great beauty, you are the Valkyrie-Born. Your skill in combat, your fire on the battlefield. When seeing you bring death, the only word to describe your abilities is beautiful."

The old woman gave a sinister laugh. "You could've just said, 'no.' But it is nice to hear the rumors are true. Geirmundr's eldest is clever with words. But will that help you, I wonder? One cannot rule with clever words."

"A charming jarl can make the weak think piss tastes like the finest mead."

"Ah, but the subjects of a strong jarlkona need never fear being forced to drink piss."

"And which are you? Ivar has made us all drink piss these last years."

"Bah, there's always going to be someone stronger, or with more clever words."

"There does not have to be," Fror held the old woman's hand. "Our families have spent so many summers killing each other. If we could come to an agreement, here and now. Together we could face Ivar."

"Ivar knows not to anger me. And I know not to anger Ivar. That was your father's way and look how he ended."

"Look how Ivar deals with his problems. He is not worthy of being king."

Alfhild finished her drink and tossed the cup to the ground. "Weathrop and the mill."

"What?"

"What I would need to join you. Weathrop and the mill."

"That's where we've stored our grain. There's not enough time to build another, where would you have us store our food?"

"Well, I'd be willing to take half."

"We'd starve! You're asking my people to die."

"Not at all, I'm asking for a way to keep my people from dying."

"I cannot pay your price."

"You'd be a fool to. Just as you'd be a fool to challenge Ivar. Are you a fool, Geirmundrsson?"

"No."

"Good lad," Alfhild patted Fror's cheek. "I'll give you your time of mourning, then we will fight for Weathrop. I've lost my favorite opponent, you best not disappoint me, Geirmundrsson."

Fror watched as the old woman joined the others. She demanded to join the axe dance and she quickly had more axes flashing through the air than any other. When she finished the crowd hollered their admiration.

When night fell, and his sons took Jarl Geirmundr from his home for the last time. Bjorn and Fror placed him upon a small boat that the slaves had dragged beside a deep pit. The shamans prayed that the gods would witness the great deeds the man had done in his life.

Fror and Bjorn stood before the boat as each of the witnesses walked past. The guests gave some small prayer or laid a token to be buried with the jarl. Rokr placed one of his axes with a silver cap on the handle. Maeva placed her favorite drinking horns and coins, kissing her second father's forehead as she passed. Then Alfhild walked forward, and undid her golden belt, a prize she had taken from Geirmundr after their first time upon the cloak all those years before.

As the last of the guests gave their offerings, Bjorn stepped forward and whispered in their father's ear. Then placed four plates each solid silver into the boat. He bowed his head, and took his place beside his brother. Fror sighed, his turn. He stepped to his father's side. He looked at Geirmundr's face, the slave women had done their job well. He looked almost alive with his hair freshly dyed and a thin application of a red to his cheeks. He would never see his father again.

"I will never forgive what you did, old man," he whispered. "But I will miss you, and I will keep your family alive."

Fror held Geirmundr's favorite sword high. Letting everyone see the layered steel, marking it as a prized relic from ages past.

"Bring her forward!"

The thrall women led one of their own, smiling and drunk to Geirmundr's side. The young girl had been Geirmundr's favorite the last few years. It was only right that she should be with him in death. The girl crawled onto the boat, and pressed her body to the dead jarl. She kissed his cheek and laughed. Until the relic sword pierced through the back of her lungs. Her laughter turned into a hacking cough as air forced itself from her body. Her blood spilling across Geirmundr's side. Fror wiped the blade clean as he sheathed his new sword. Then nodded to his brother. Together the two lowered the boat into the earth, as several of Geirmundr's warriors packed dirt over their jarl and the dying slave.

* * *

Fror crept through the hall and slipped silently through the door. A light shined in the barn. Fror shook his head, could his brother and sister make themselves more obvious? With Alfhild or one of her servants still resting in the hall. It would only take one to wake up through the night to release their bladder for the plot to be discovered.

As Fror entered the barn he saw Bjorn hold Maeva in a brotherly embrace. The slave, Bester, paced past the cows, his chin resting on his hand as he muttered to himself.

"Good, we can start," Maeva pushed free of Bjorn when she saw Fror. "He kept saying we needed to wait for you."

"Fror'd explain it better than me," Bjorn sat down in a small mound of dirt.

"How are we going to kill Ivar," Maeva said.

"We're not," Fror looked back toward the hall, making certain that no one followed him. Maeva opened her mouth to interject. "At least not yet. The famine hit us harder than most. Ivar knows this. For however much I despise him, he is a clever man. He won't strike us quickly, he'll let the famine weaken us. Then he'll make up some pretense for how we broke our oaths to him, and he'll sweep us aside. That means we have time."

"Time to do what? Get to the point, brother!"

"We're going on Viking."

"Absolutely out of the question," Bester finally spoke up. "We're being watched. If we suddenly gain the supplies we need after another village nearby was suddenly attacked, they'll know it was us. That gives Ivar the reason to attack us and would unite the rest of Daneland against us."

"We're not going to attack any of the Danes."

"Who then? The Swedes? The Jutes? You'll start a war, and the other kings will force Ivar to kill you for breaking the peace, which is exactly what Ivar wants."

"The Christians." As soon as the name left his lips the others grew silent. Bjorn nodded his agreement. Maeva smiled. Bester's eyes bulged.

"You're insane!" the thrall finally broke the silence. "I'd expect that lunacy to come from Maeva, or Rorkr!"

"Watch it old man," Maeve said. "My lunacy is completely different from Rokr's."

Bjorn gave a soft chuckle, but Bester's voice only rose higher. "Do you remember what happened when the Northmen last raided the Christian Kingdoms? Do you remember nothing of the histories I taught you? I should have been talking to the cows!"

"Bester, listen to me. This will work."

"Your first raid will. Maybe your second and third. But then the Christian Kingdoms will unite to drive you off. And they will not know the difference between a Swede or a Dane. They will push into our lands and burn our holy sites. They will force us to convert to their One God or die."

Fror let the old man rant. Nothing he said, Fror hadn't thought himself since he first came up with the plan. "I have always paid attention to your lessons. I know how the great Warrior King Louis lead a united force to our doorstep. But I know more than just history. I have listened to our traders. Each one that returns talks how the roads have become untamed. They say bandits wander between cities free to steal what they will. The Christian Kingdoms war with each other, and the East Folk. They have no more strong leaders. They are weaker now than they have ever been. Now is the time."

"It will still start a war!"

"Or we will starve! And Ivar will kill us come spring." Bjorn said. "Do you have any better plan, Bester? Geirmundr always valued your wisdom. I will do the same."

Bester glanced back between the three. Fror could see his mind twisting behind his eyes. Trying to think of some better plan. Fror hoped the old man could, but Bester's shoulders hunched in defeat. He grabbed one of the horse pens to steady himself, and waved Fror to continue.

"Maeva I want you to lead the raid. Take Rokr with you, before he grows bored. Bjorn and I will remain to make it appear all is normal. You will need to build another ship and plot the course in two weeks. Good?"

"Good," Maeva spoke without hesitation. Though her eyes were wide, and she chewed on the end of her red hair.

"And Bester, I need you to gather the warriors. But they must be loyal and smart enough to keep silent. If a word of this gets to Ivar we are doomed. Can you do this?"

"I don't seem to have a choice."

"Are you with us, old man?"

Bester frowned. "Always, my jarl."

The final details were set and the four slipped back into the hall. Tomorrow they would begin their work, the first step to topple a king or die.

* * *

Author's Note.

This creation is from a joke that I took far too seriously. Honestly, I wasn't impressed with the campaign of For Honor. Some interesting ideas, but Apollyon seemed a bit too simplistic a villain to really get my invested, who just wanted to create war because of a very odd ideology. And all the protagonists were mostly just blank slates that didn't even have names. I also didn't think the game did a particularly good job portraying the three cultures beyond broad strokes. This is an attempt to change that with a story featuring hopefully interesting and complex characters and motivations that gives a bit of a fuller grasp on the various cultures.

I should note, this is the first story I've ever tried to write. And since I started this segment by throwing shade at professional writers, I'm fully prepared to be completely embarrassed by my own attempts. But I found I truly enjoyed the writing. So, please criticize to your hearts content, I'd like to improve.


	2. Mission 1: The First Viking

"The provisions are set?" Bester asked Maeva, the old slave's eyes darting over her face as though trying to memorize every detail. As though he'd never see her again. "The food mustn't spoil before you make it to shore."

"It is set, and sealed from the waters. I am not a fool, you don't need to explain everything to me."

Bester nodded, "And the sunstone? You have it?"

"Yes, and I have the weapons, and the charts, the sail, the oars. I even think I have a ship or two hidden somewhere."

"I only mean you need to be prepared. You've been known to rush things."

"I am not a child anymore, Bester," Maeva scowled. "I can take care of myself."

"That's not," Bester raised his hands in submission. "Gods help me. I know you can take care of yourself. Just sometimes looking things over can save you a bit of misery down the line."

"The only misery will be what we deal to our enemies." Maeva prepared herself to cut down whatever new objection or complaint Bester would raise. But she could not prepare for the old wrinkled arms that embraced her.

"Be careful," his voice barely a whisper. "Geirtvedt will not be the same with you gone."

"I'll be back quick enough," Maeva gently freed herself from the slave's grasp. It would not due. Not in her first true viking to have her men see her so entangled with a slave. They needed to fear and respect her, not see her as some pampered girl. "Go check on that merchant you found, Halfdanr. I don't have time for this nonsense."

Bester nodded, giving her one more mournful look before rushing to the docks. Two weeks since Geirmundr's funeral and somehow, they had managed to gather everything they needed. Maeva still had splinters in her fingers from chopping wood building her ship. It was not a beautiful ship, they had not had time to shave it down or add decoration. Yet Maeva could only smile thinking of it. They had done it. Soon she would be leading the first raid the Christians in centuries. They would sing songs of her, if she did this right. And she would do it right, only a worried fool would think otherwise. Bester meant well, but he had a slave's mentality, always worrying always fearful of what he could lose. But Maeva had the blood of warriors, and she would be victorious. She would not contemplate otherwise.

She headed away from the docks, past the barren fields toward the hills. She passed warriors from around Daneland and beyond, even a few Swedes and Jutes. Each sworn to silence and brought to Geirtvedt in secret. Each had a name to be respected or feared, and they all had a reason to hate King Ivar, the Christians, or both.

The morning tide approached, and with it the ships would leave. But Maeva made time for one last visit. She reached the northern hills and climbed to the top and the dirt pile that still showed signs of the shovels from two weeks prior.

She kneeled beside the mound and bowed her head. "Geirmundr."

It had been important to see him before she left. He had always offered her sound reasoning, and harsh lessons. Geirmundr had taught her the way of the spear and the shifting of the waters. She only hoped that he would listen to her now.

"Father, I miss you." Maeva shook her head, a poor way to begin. Geirmundr would never have indulged in the weak emotions. "I ask for your guidance once more. Today, I go on my first viking, to raid a town I have never seen. Know that I do this for you. To keep your lands free and people fed. Know that even while I am away, your sons and I are planning on killing the coward that slew you. And give aid to Fror. He never had your strength, and he will need it now, more than ever."

She sat awhile longer, trying to think of something else to say to the man. What more could she say to the man that slew her father then raised her as his own? The one who made her to be strong. Perhaps a prayer or offering or oath? But no words came, and the tide drew ever nearer. She placed her hand on the mound of dirt, then rocked back onto her feet.

The dock bristled with activity. Warriors lined up beside the two ships, each carrying a sack of their equipment. Bjorn organized the remaining men into the two lines, trying hard to keep friends together and those few with grudges on separate ships, all while keeping the numbers even. Some disagreed with their placement, Bjorn would joke with or threaten as he saw fit.

Fror stood on the grass above the docks. He wore one of Geirmundr's old wolfskin cloaks draped over his shoulders. He certainly looked the part of an imposing jarl, with the thick dark beard and cunning eyes of his father. Yet Maeva could not help but notice he aided no one, only standing in silence while others did the actual work. Shaking her head, Maeva found her second tossing his equipment aboard his ship.

"You ready, Rokr?"

"Odin saw me ready since I woke. It's the damn water that's holding us up." The berserkr wore his war garb, a thick bear pelt cape, with the animal's head resting atop a skullcap. He could wrap it around his torso to act as armor, but now he chose to let the pelt flow around him as a cloak, exposing his muscled chest and tattoos. The dark make-up around his eyes and smeared on the wisps of facial hair to make him seem older than Maeva knew him to be.

"We'll set sail soon enough. Go speak to your men and we'll be out on the waters quick as we can."

Rokr strutted away from Maeva without a word, toward the second line. "Everyone aboard!" he called. The warriors nodded to him as they finished their conversations and set foot on the ship. Rokr gave no words of encouragement, no acknowledgement on how important this would be. Her mistake thinking that Rokr would care for anything except getting closer to the people he was going to kill. She would do things right.

She stepped before her crew and the ship she had spent most of the last week building. "Warriors of Daneand!" the conversations ended and the men turned toward her. Even a few on Rokr's ships paid her heed. "Warriors, today Odin smiles upon us and Aegir is calm. Today we set off to do what has not been attempted in centuries. When we return we will have food to feed us through the winter, wealth to spend for all our days. But most of all we will be legends! Our names will be remembered as heroes. All others in Daneland, no, all the Norse will curse themselves for not being with us today!"

Her warriors cheered.

"Into the ships and cast off!"

Bjorn came to Maeva, smiling. "Good speech. Was that what I heard you muttering to yourself all last week?"

"I wanted to get it right."

"You did," he pulled Maeva to him and nearly crushed her in his embrace. "Be strong."

"Always am."

"And look after Rokr. He may be Odin-blessed, but he's just a kid. He will do great things, but, still, watch for him."

"He will be fine," Maeva pulled away from her brother's arms.

"And look after yourself," Fror appeared beside them. "Follow the plan, get in grab what you can and leave. If we lose too many warriors, your cargo, or a ship we are doomed."

"I know."

Fror held out his arm, and Maeva grabbed his forearm. "May Odin guide you, and Tyr protect you."

"They will, the gods love me."

"We all do," Fror smiled.

Maeva nodded, then headed toward the merchant Bester had scrounged up.

He talked to the old thrall, a lanky man with a bushy mustache that ran down his chin into two tufts of hair. His forehead wrinkled with worry.

"It's time, get to the ship," Maeva commanded. Halfdanr's eyes widened.

"You'll care for them?" he said to Bester.

"I gave my oath," Bester said, "as long as Maeva confirms you did your job. Now go."

The merchant looked between Bester and Maeva, his shoulders slumped as headed toward the ship. Maeva gave Bester a quizzical look, "I thought you said this merchant was a friend? That didn't look too friendly."

"Halfdanr occasionally needs some encouragement. But he knows the towns around the coast." Bester smiled, his eyes watery. Another sign of the slave's weakness. "Be strong." Maeva nodded, uncertain if he spoke to her or himself.

It would be good to get away from the old man and his worrying. He meant well, but he tries to make others just as cautious and passive as him. One of the reasons Geirmundr was so hard on Fror, probably. Fror respected the old man's words too much. Thankfully the beatings made Fror at least somewhat strong.

Maeva gave one final look to her family then boarded her ship. Rough and undecorated, but it would take her to glory. Her men took to their benches, oars in hand. She walked passed each one, inspecting that their belongings were secured then took her seat at the front oar.

"Push!" she roared. The drummer began his beat, and the oars turned the water. Two ships sailed from Geirtvedt toward glory.

* * *

"Small town, I'm guessing a dozen guards at most," Rokr whispered as he pushed aside a low-hanging tree branch.

"See? You were right to trust old Halfdanr," the merchant smiled. "Easy towns, ripe for viking. You asked for one, and here we are."

"Hush," Maeva said "It's hard enough to think without you prattling about nothing." The sharp bristles of the bush they hid beneath pricked into her side distracted her enough.

A small wooden wall surrounded the town. More as a means of organizing its borders than to provide any real defense. Any of her men could likely climb over or break through. Except Halfdanr, but his usefulness waned fast.

"These folks don't look particularly rich, what wealth could they have?"

"They're not," Halfdanr said. "But the church has silver, and nearby they store grain."

Maeva nodded, that made sense. The old tales described the wealth placed within the Christian's religious buildings.

"The fools still place their wealth there?" Rokr laughed.

Halfdanr shrugged, "For the last century we have been traders, not vikings."

"They're still fools, not learning from the past."

"Which building is the church?"

Halfdanr pointed toward the tallest building, a cross placed upon the top. "I hoped we would arrive yesterday. On Sunday they all go to the Church. All in one place, all without weapons. Pity we missed it."

Maeva frowned, was this sniveling merchant insulting her navigation or her sailors? They got here as quick as the fates allowed.

"Can't wait a full week. We'll be found," Rokr scratched at his nose, smearing his face paint in the process.

Maeva nodded. "I've seen all I need."

The three crawled back out of the bushes and headed toward the shore. They hid the ships several miles away, pulled up onto the riverbed. The warriors meandered around the ships, stretching their legs after the weeks cramped in their ship.

"We attacking?" One of the younger warriors, Ulfr, raced toward her in his excitement.

"We are," Maeva said. "There aren't much in the way of defenders. Only a dozen or so guards. But this is a forest town. Expect everyone to be armed with something. We're splitting in two. My group will sail into their dock, provide a big obvious enemy. Rokr, will lead his crew through the forest and wait until you hear the fighting start, then, you lot will take them like a bitch from behind."

The warriors laughed and prepared for battle. It was happening, Maeva felt herself grinning like a fool. What had Geirmundr said? 'A leader should be as harsh as the mountain. If you do not hint your pleasure, your men will work all the harder to please you.' She tried to force her lips to frown, but she could not help it. She was too excited.

"And what of me?" Halfdanr's wheezing voice interrupt her thoughts, and suddenly her need to smile shriveled up within her.

"You will be with me."

"With you?" He looked as though he would wet himself. "Won't you be at the front of the attack? Where the fighting is thick?"

"Yes." Why had Bester saddled her with such a weak man?

"I don't know anything about fighting, won't a be a weakness to your line?" The coward's voice broke halfway through the sentence. By the gods was he going to cry?

"No, you won't be much good in a fight, but you have a very important task, Halfdanr."

"What?"

"There's no way to reach the docks without being seen first. The guards will be ready when we get there. I need you to convince them we're simple traders until we all get off our ship and attack them."

Halfdanr's mouth dropped open, and a long sad sound came out. Almost a wail, but far too quiet.

"Stop that," Maeva commanded. The man snapped his mouth shut.

"Maeva, I can't do this."

"Why not?"

"You- you're all clearly fully armed warriors. No one in their right mind would believe we're traders."

"Then think up a better lie and get in the ship." Maeva turned away from the sniveling coward. A doomed task, she knew. But even if he only gave her warriors moments before the guards cut him down it would be worth it. They needed that time to get off their ship and into formation, and she no longer needed Halfdanr.

"Ready the ship!" Maeva called as she pressed her shoulder to the longship and her feet dug into the dregs. Her warriors moved in unison, pushing their weight into the ship and heaving it into the water. The ship gained speed and Maeva leaped onto the deck with a splash.

Every sailor jumped when their time came, except one. Halfdanr stood waist deep in the water, struggling to heave himself aboard.

"Bastard's shaking the whole ship," Erik Redhorn muttered as he looked down in disdain at the merchant.

"Someone pull him aboard, before he drowns himself," Maeva commanded.

Erik shrugged, but the old warrior dutifully grasped Halfdanr by the shoulder and pulled. Halfdanr flopped aboard wiggling like a fish.

"Thank you, thank you. Sorry," the merchant struggled to stand.

"Get to your oar," Erik sat in his own position and started to row. Halfdanr still struggling to get his breath under control sat and reached with trembling arms for his oar.

"Row!" dozens of oars slipped in unison into the water. "Row!" Maeva shouted again, her call answered by a grunt from several of the Vikings. "Row!" the beat of the drum took up her tempo, and the ship headed toward the town.

As the river turned they saw the town before them, and the town saw them. When they grew closer the vague shapes of people grew, they did not seem to be paying them much heed. The poor fools did not know the doom that would be coming to them.

Halfdanr stopped rowing, stood from his position and reached over the side of the ship to wipe down his face with the waters.

"What are you doing?" Maeva hissed.

"I'm a merchant, remember?" Halfdanr said continuing to clean himself. "I need to look the part, a merchant does not row."

Another excuse to shirk work, no doubt. But Maeva did not make a fuss, the town grew larger, the Christians could see them. On the shore, men and women dashed back and forth as men holding weapons rushed into place.

"Steady in!" Maeva shouted, the beat of the drum slowed down. The oars moved at half speed. Maeva realized she held her breath and released it slow and steady. She needed to be ready. This very well may be the most important moment of her entire life. This would look back on this as the day she won her glory.

On the shore the guards formed a thin line. One stepped in front of the others, the only one wearing the solid metal breastplates the Christians were so fond of. He shouted something in one of the Christian tongues. It sounded guttural and rough, a ridiculous and harsh language for the people of a ridiculous and harsh god.

Halfdanr shouted something back, his hands raised up high. The guard responded. Halfdanr coughed. Maeva noticed his hands shiver.

"We need him to trust us, Halfdanr."

"Give me a moment, they just watched as a ship full of warriors landed on their shore," he shouted again in that incomprehensible language. "I will need your shield."

"I am not giving you my shield."

"It's the best one on the ship, please, I need to make certain I look important." The merchant looked down at her with worried grey eyes.

"That shield was a gift from Jarl Geirmundr, you will not touch it."

"This is your plan, Maeva. Either I use your shield or they'll fight us coming off the ship.

Maeva looked at her shield. Geirmundr had it painted especially for her. The Geirtvedt's symbols made in the colors of her old family. He had smiled when he gave it to her. That smile he always had for her. Fror was bookish and weak, and Bjorn would never make a good head of home with his preferences. But Geirmundr had been so proud of her.

"Maeva, we're getting close."

"Take it."

The ship touched the shore and Halfdanr leaped out holding her shield high. He spoke the ugly language, and the guard relaxed. He took off his helmet and spoke at length with Halfdanr. Maeva stepped onto the shore.

The guard did not like that, and he immediately shouted at her and Halfdanr. The guards raised their swords and spears and pointed them at Maeva.

"Stay back!" Halfdanr waved at her to get back onto the ship.

"What's going on, Halfdanr?"

"He's smart. I convinced him we were soldiers from King Ivar that got blown off course. He believes me, but, he's warry of letting so many armed men into his town."

"This only works if he lets us out of the ship, Halfdanr."

"I'm working on it." The merchant spoke at length with the guard.

"Two silver says the fool gets himself killed," Erik muttered, no one took him up on the bet.

Halfdanr said something quick, and the guard looked to Maeva before he burst out into laughter. His men lowered their weapons.

"What's going on Halfdanr?"

"He's going to let us disembark. But only three at a time, and we'll be under guard."

Maeva nodded, "I can work with that." She stepped off the ship, Erik followed with another of the old warriors, Olaf True-Arm. The head guard waved to some of his men.

Three of the other guards stepped in front of Maeva and her men. As the Vikings stepped ashore, the guards stepped to their sides.

"Where are they leading us?" Olaf looked uncomfortably at the guards.

"They're taking us to the church," Halfdanr said. "I told them we were hungry from our travels, and he offered to let us stay the night and resupply." Halfdanr looked to Maeva, guilt in his eyes. "These are good people."

"These are fools," Maeva scowled. One of the guards looked at her. A young man, about her age. Somewhat handsome with a thin beard. He smiled at her and nodded, waving his arm toward the church. Did he think she was confused?

A scream pierced the air, before being violently silenced. Rokr.

Everyone stopped. No one spoke or even breathed. The old guard looked toward Halfdanr his eyes filled with fury. He raised his large two=handed sword and shouted. The merchant raised Maeva's shield as the guard's blade slammed into it.

The young guard that had smiled at her looked at her wild eyed, and fumbled for his weapons. Maeva ran at him. Her shoulder slamming into the padding of his gambeson and the guard hit the ground. He unsheathed his sword and started flailing with it wildly on the ground. The sword struck the dirt and its momentum stopped. Maeva stepped on the still blade so the boy could not swing again, then kicked him in the face with her other foot.

He looked at her, blood spurting out of his nose. He released his weapon and tried to shield his face with his arms. Poor form, badly trained. Pathetic. Maeva kicked again, her foot angled beneath his arms to strike his chin. His head snapped back and his arms went limp.

"Spears!" Maeva ran back toward her ship, while Erik and Olaf fought with the other guards. The rest of her warriors leaped from the ship.

"Here!" The young Ulfr tossed a spear high. Maeva snatched it from the air and whirled back toward the fighting.

The guards ran toward the water, striking at the Vikings as they jumped from their ship and before they could get their footing.

Halfdanr shouted, the merchant cowered behind her shield, while the old guard lashed out with his blade. Several cuts on Halfdanr's arms and face bled, the old guard struck again at the perfect angle for his longsword to slice above the rim of Halfdanr's shield and scrape his wrist.

Halfdanr screamed and charged, the guard stepped aside and let the merchant pass harmlessly. Without striking his target, Halfdanr's momentum carried him another step forward before he lost his footing and landed hard on the sand.

The old guard stepped over Halfdanr, his wrinkled face twisting in rage. Halfdanr whimpered and tried to cover his body completely behind the shield. The guard roared, his blade swiping down to kill the merchant.

Maeva threw her spear, hitting the man in the chest. He stumbled back and his sword swung wide. She scrambled forward, snatching her spear from the ground and stood over the bleeding merchant.

"You saved me," Halfdanr said, the dripping cuts streaking down his face.

"Shield! Now!"

Halfdanr raised the shield with trembling hand, Maeva grabbed the central boss and crouched low, her spear pointed directly at the old guard. "Get back to the ship."

The guard shouted as well, and held the sword low. A small dent showed on his armor where Maeva had struck him. Maeva thrust her spear, the guard swept forward with his sword knocking Maeva's spear aside as he stepped forward into a thrust of his own. One that Maeva easily blocked with her shield.

Maeva thrust again, this time the old guard stepped aside and slammed his blade down knocking the spear low. He flicked his blade back an attack more quick than deadly. It scrapped along Maeva's arm cutting into the padding of her cloth armor.

Maeva punched forward with her shield hitting him in the gut. He let out a sharp bark of a word and stepped back. His breath heavy, he may have gotten a lucky strike. But the old man's strength was leaving him. And he knew it.

She glanced down at her wound and smiled. It stung, but she had felt worse. Another breath and the man stepped forward his sword held low out in front of him. He was going to try to thrust against her own, slip through and get in close where he had the advantage.

So Maeva shifted her strike aiming her spearpoint wide. Sure enough the guard's sword reached to meet her spear only for his own thrust to go wide. He raised his sword high to intercept the counterattack pointed toward her head. Only that attack did not come.

Maeva held her shield high, blocking any line of attack the guard had and thrust low. The spear pierced into his unarmored leg. She felt the tip of her weapon scrape against bone and the old man howled.

He grabbed at her shield, but Maeva moved out of his reach. He still stood, his boot masking the grave wound in his leg. A lesser man would have fallen. A pity had the guard been twenty years younger this may have been a fight. The first duel of champions of the first voyage of the new era of Vikingen. The bards would have sung of their duel through the centuries.

Now she saw only an old man ready to die. He stumbled forward trying to hold onto his technique, but his body sagged and his footwork slowed. She danced around him, prodding with her spear. Most strikes he parried aside or let harmlessly scrape against his armor. But some few prodded the exposed flesh of his legs and armpits. But he stood, bleeding from a dozen wounds, not attacking only keeping her occupied.

Maeva circled around him, to keep him in view and looked to her crew. They managed against the other guards, even with poor positioning and worse equipment. Not much a handful of soldiers could do against an entire longship of raiders.

They were in a doomed position, yet the old guard simply stood his ground. What did he expect to happen? That weak god of theirs to interfere, stop their inevitable destruction? Their god would not help them. This was the battlefield, where Odin and Tyr reigned.

Commotion came behind, and the guard smiled, his mouth red with blood. Maeva glanced behind her. "Hela take them." The townsfolk arrived onto the beach, men and women armed with rusty hammers and the heads of scythes quickly latched atop poles to use as makeshift spears.

"Formation, shield wall! Formation!" Maeva ran toward her ship, but the guard stepped in front of her sword pointed toward her face, saying something in his ugly tongue.

"Fuck off!" Maeva dashed forward the head of her spear held back, her shield high. The guard thrust forward, the blade scrapping across her shield. She thrust low, her spear angling beneath the man's breastplate. She found her mark, the spear slipped beneath his armor and into his guts.

His sword hit the ground with a loud thump and he clutched at her shoulder. His strength left his legs and he slunk to the ground.

Before her, the Vikings had found their footing and aligned their shields. Creating a crescent of wood and spears that protected themselves and the ship. She turned to look at the rabble of townmen thundering upon them. But before their forces met, they slowed. Half of the Christian forces turning around. The sounds of screaming and the clang of weapons drew closer.

Between two buildings a familiar figure appeared. A young man with a bear pelt wrapped around him, war paint around his eyes and a feral grin on his lips. Rokr laughed and pointed toward the rabble with his blood-dripping axe. Behind him more of his Vikings appeared each splattered with dirt and blood.

Some of the townsfolk dropped their weapons and ran, others held shaking untested weapons at the new enemy. Still laughing, Rokr attacked. He dived beneath a spear and slashed through the woman holding the weapons guts in a single movement. His raiders chased behind him, following their leaders example as they hacked apart the town.

Maeva heard a wail and looked down. The guard lay on the ground, his broken body propped against a rock. Tears streaked down his face as he watched Rokr's slaughter.

"Still alive?" Maeva squatted beside the man. "Tough old bastard. You fought well. Honorable, even. I would have preferred it, if you died thinking you saved your people." She pulled out her knife and slit the man's throat. "Can't be helped now."

Maeva wiped the blood from her knife and sheathed it. Picking up her spear and shield she stood and raised them high. She roared her victory. Her men joined their voices to hers. The chorus of shouting men rushed forward their spears meeting the townsfolk.

Blood spilled and bones broke. The townsfolk held the ground only a moment before Rokr and his men slammed into their rear. What few Christians remained threw down their weapons and ran. Her warriors chased down the survivors hollering and praising the gods.

"Remember, the wealth is in the church!" Maeva pointed toward the building with her spear. "The church, not senseless slaughter."

"Can't stop the tide," Rokr stepped next to Maeva, blood covered and smiling. "We fought well."

"You nearly got us killed, what happened I told you not to start the conflict until we were ready."

Rokr's eyes narrowed. "I just saved your ass, Maeva."

"From a situation we would not have been in if you waited for us to get off the damn ship first."

"A child saw one of my men and screamed. I silenced him quick as I could."

Maeva sighed, "Can't be helped. I'm heading toward the church, you?"

"I'll gather thralls."

"Alive, Rokr. We want slaves alive and able to work."

"I know what I'm doing," he tapped on the side of his head with his shield. "Odin didn't bless me today. I'll only kill the ones that cause too much trouble."

"Good." Maeva held out her arm, and Rokr grasped it. "To our victory."

"To Odin."

The berserkr headed toward small houses twirling his axe as he went. Maeva headed to the church, some of her men already battering down the large doors when she got there. As the wood broke apart she heard the screams of those inside. But beyond the cowering thralls she saw large candlesticks made of silver, and an altar covered by the most ornate cloth she had ever seen.

Maeva's eyes widened, with this wealth her home would be secure. Fror and Bjorn would be safe, their people would not starve through the winter.

"Take them all."


	3. Mission 2: Holmganga

Bjorn woke with Helgi in his arms. Thralls and servants moved about him, telling him with each step he had overslept. He disentangled himself from the thrall. He should wake Helgi, the thrall would need to go about his tasks. But he looked so comfortable and contented. Helgi could rest for a few moments more.

Bjorn stood and stretched. He grabbed the cloths he had flung into a pile the night before and dressed. The scent of the morning meal found him, he must be much later than he anticipated. As he tied his belt he walked to the front of the hall. Fror already stood before the cooking pot. Freyrdi and her thrall women stood behind it, looking down over her meal.

Fror held his amulet to Odin over the bowl and spoke. Bjorn took his position beside his brother, being certain not to interrupt him.

"And guide me with wisdom over my coming trials and judgments." Fror nodded to him before placing the amulet on the table and pulling out a small silver charm bearing the symbol of Freyja. "Mother Freyja, Queen of Folkvangr, wife of Óðr please bring prosperity to our harvest and many strong sons."

He pulled the silver ring of Thor off his arm and asked for strength to his warriors. Then a pendant to Tyr and asked for guidance in whatever judgments he made. Finished with the daily prayers, Fror dipped his hand into the pot and pulled a thin chunk of meat dripping with grease and chunks of grain stuck to it. Fror swallowed the meat, as Giermundr had done a thousand times before to signal the meal prepared and ready for the rest of the hall to eat. He took his charms and runes laid out across the table and pulled the rings up to his forearms and draped the necklaces over his neck.

As he did, Freyrdi dipped a bowl into the pot and pulled out the boiled meat. She handed the bowl to Bjorn, who accepted it with a smile. Other thralls took bowls and plates and passed them to each of the warriors remaining in the hall. Only after each of them were fed did they bring food to the freedmen. Slaves ate what scraps remained.

"Brother," Bjorn stepped to Fror, still holding his bowl of food. "Brother we need to talk."

Fror adjusted the silver armring to better fit. The ring had been made for Giermundr and unless Fror placed it right it slid down his arm. He waved for Bjorn to keep talking as he fiddled with the armring.

"I wish to talk to you."

"I'm listening, what is it?"

"It's about Helgi."

"Your ergi you love so much?"

"Yes," Bjorn sighed. "I wish to free him."

"Free him?" Fror frowned. "I need him. He's young and works well, when you're not tiring him out."

"I know brother, but-" He wanted Helgi to be free, needed it. But what argument could he make for it. "He could still work for you as a freedman. He's loyal."

"To you. I cannot risk him deciding to leave. Not now."

"I could pay for him."

"With what money have you been storing away?"

"I could work, for you. A few months out in the fields like a common farmer. If that's what you need me to do."

"Brother be quiet. What use would you be out in the fields? I'll likely have greater need of you rested and strong when Alfhild decides to strike." His eyes met Bjorn's for a long while before he sighed. "Come spring, I'll free him."

Bjorn rushed forward and embraced him. "Thank you Fror!"

"Enough! I have duties to attend to," Fror pulled himself free. He frowned at his arm, the silver ring slipped to his wrist. "Actually, there's something I need of you," he said as he pulled the Thor ring back up his arm.

"Name it, and it will be done."

"I received word, we're getting a visitor today. Hasvir, he's coming to inspect our lands."

"That shit?" Bjorn scowled. If there was ever news to sour a day, it would be dealing with Hasvir. "Why now?"

"King Ivar found our last tribute too low for his liking. Hasvir coming means he's going to try and get more from us."

"We don't have any more."

"When has that ever stopped one of Ivar's taxmen?" Fror shook his head. "I need you to attend to him."

"Why me? Hasvir hates me."

"Hasvir hates everyone. I'd do it myself, but there's a dispute between two of our farmers that needs to be addressed. I'd use Bester, but I don't want that snake-eyed bastard hitting the old man again."

"And using me other than a servant or slave shows we take him and Ivar seriously."

Fror nodded. "You're my right hand. You'll do it?"

"Of course," Bjorn took another bite of pork. "Damn them, I'd hoped Maeva'd be back before the dogs started after us."

"Me as well. Though it might be for the best."

"We won't have to hide what Maeva brings with her."

Fror smiled, "Exactly." Two freedmen stepped behind Fror, asking to speak with him. One talking about fixing the broken gate in the cow barn before Fror stopped him. "Hold a moment, brother. There is likely another reason why Ivar sent Hasvir. He may try to provoke you. Do not strike him. Ivar wants an excuse to attack us, do not give it to him."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Bjorn said as he finished the last bites of his meal.

"Then you're a better man than me. Pig-faced bastard could stand to lose a few teeth. I will send for you when he appears."

"I'll be out back, some wood needs splitting, if he's not here when I'm finished I'll be training."

Bjorn headed out of the hall toward where Bjorn and few others had brought back several trees for the broken barn the day before. Whatever was left over would be used to replace stools broken during his father's funeral. Every day a new task to keep Geirtvedt standing tall. Lumber, or fixing a plow, or settling an argument without resorting to blood.

Bjorn grabbed the splitting axe and dragged one of the trees to a small clearing. The weight of the axe felt right in his hands, the satisfying thunk as it bit into the wood even better. He hacked at the wood until his arms ached. It was tiring work, but his favorite. His body knew what to do, and his mind wandered.

Helgi would be free. They needed to survive through winter. They were lucky. If Ivar had waited until winter or early spring to kill Geirmundr Fror would never have had time to send Maeva out. They would have either been forced into a war half-starved or forced into slavery. A small mistake from Ivar. But every misstep of your enemy needed to be taken.

Geirmundr would have laughed if he knew what he and Fror planned. He'd have wanted to go himself. Even at his age with his bad knee, no one would have dared stop him. A great man, there was no way he could ever live up to him. Alfhild had spoken true, it was a rare thing for a man to not only spoke by the old ways but followed them.

He needed to do the same. Fror was cunning, but he sometimes convinced himself the easy way was better than the proper one. Bjorn would keep his brother in check, as Geirmundr had before him. Fror needed reminding to keep his oaths, and follow the honor of their fathers.

Bjorn thought back to the night Fror lost his young bride. The rage in his brother's eyes. A cold rage. One that could slaughter the woman he'd loved since they were children without a moment's hesitation.

Bjorn put the axe down and gathered the wood into a neat pile. No more of that, Medana had died a year ago. That tragedy stood behind them along with their father. He needed to look ahead. To the winter cold, and the king's taxman.

"Bjorn!"

The big man turned and smiled as Knut ran toward him. "How goes it, little one?"

The child smiled back. "Hello Bjorn! Fror sent me. He told me I had to get you. He told me to run, I think he sent me because I'm so fast! You need to be in the Hall. There's a man there. And he's important. And how are you doing?"

"I'm doing well, Knut. Hasvir arrived?"

"I don't know his name. I don't think I've seen him before. He looks important though, he's wearing one of those arm rings. The ones with the king's symbol on them. I think he works for the king."

"He does. Thank you, Knut."

"Were you chopping wood? That's a lot." The boy nudged the pile of logs.

"I was, did not quite finish. I'll be back later."

"Do you want help? I could try to help you."

"I think you're a little too small. Next year, maybe."

Knut scrunched up his face. "I'm not too small to help."

"Of course, that's why Fror sent you as his messenger. Why don't you do the same for me? Run ahead and announce my coming."

Knut's headed nodded so fast Bjorn worried he would hurt his neck. The boy turned and ran toward the hall. Bjorn set down the axe and stretched his shoulders. Time for the real work of the day to begin.

"Fror! Fror!" Knut shouted from within the building. "I did what you asked. Bjorn is coming. Oh! He also told me I should tell everyone he's coming. Everyone! Bjorn is coming!"

Bjorn entered a moment later. Knut beamed as he looked to Fror with all the pride a child could muster.

"Thank you, Knut. You did very well. I will tell your father how helpful you were."

"Thank you, Fror. I mean. Thank you, Jarl Fror."

"You can go now, Knut."

"And just who is the boy's father?" Hasvir said, his piglike eyes shifting around the room. His disdain already plastered over his round face.

"Ulfr, one of my huskarls."

"Good, I was worried you let one of your slaves speak to you with such disrespect."

"Knut was not disrespectful," Bjorn said in confusion.

Hasvir's eyes laid on Bjorn. "Hrmm, of course this one knows nothing about the proper way to distance ourselves from our slaves."

"Hasvir," Bjorn nodded at the man. "Did your travels go smoothly?"

"Four days hard ride to get to this sad farm. Four days ride back when I'm done. Fror told me you would be my guide. Let's get this over with."

"I will leave you to it, brother," Fror gave Bjorn an apologetic look as he left the hall. Several thralls in tow. On any other day, Bjorn would give his left arm to avoid listening to the myriad of petty complaints that came with being a jarl. But today, Bjorn would have done anything to switch spots with his brother.

"Let's start with your hall. Rather large one, isn't it?"

"Geirtvedt was built in more favorable times, when my father was favored by King Harald. We have trouble maintaining it now."

"Still I've been informed that several huskarls sleep here, and even more servants, and slaves. Do you know how many?"

"Only a handful of huskarls now, seven, including myself."

"And the servants and slaves?"

"I don't know the number, fewer than years past."

"Sent them away before I arrived, more like."

The two walked down the hall and the connecting rooms. Hasvir opened each door and ruffled through every crate. Muttering to himself and criticizing Bjorn's home all the while. The kitchen was too large with too little stock. He did not believe how few barrels of mead they had left and searched for where more were certainly hidden.

Only Hasvir found nothing. Bjorn made certain to answer each of his questions, and kept calm as the man made wilder accusations. Eventually they looped back into the main hall and Hasvir stopped at a thin piece of hay bedding.

"And what is this, here?"

"Bedding, for the thralls."

Hasvir whirled around, his small piggish eyes bulging as large as they could manage. "Bedding for the thralls? I was unaware I was in the presence of the most opulent family in Ivar's kingdom. Bedding for the thralls? Thralls sleep with the animals where they belong."

"Not here. We have the room for them, I said, Geirtvedt is empty, suffering-"

"By your brother's own mismanagement! Spending what he doesn't have for this," Hasvir kicked at Helgi's bed, where Bjorn had been mere hours before. Bjorn pictured forcing Helgi out to live among the pigs and cows and his fist clenched.

He's trying to goad me. Bjorn relaxed his hand. "I will inform my brother," he said through gritted teeth.

Hasvir's lip twitching for a moment, the first signal he was happy about something. Fror was right, this is what Ivar wanted. He knows about me and Helgi. Bastard.

"Since we're on the topic, let's check the barn."

"Of course," Bjorn lead in silence. Hasvir made a few brief mentions as to why their land was not more profitable. Most of his suggestions were ludicrous. How to separate the horses and pigs, the chickens were on the wrong side of the building. Utter nonsense. Then Hasvir asked to see the fields.

They stomped about the fields for most of the day, Bjorn gave token agreement to each of the tax collector's suggestions. The grain was too close together, the slaves were not gathering in the most efficient manner. The thickness of the storage barrels was wrong.

"That land, there," Hasvir stopped and pointed down the hill. "Why isn't that growing crops?"

"The grazing lands?"

"Yes, it should be grain."

"It isn't in the right position for grain, see how the hill blocks the sunlight?"

"It needs to be grain fields."

Bjorn shut his eyes and took a deep breath. "Then what will our animals-I will inform my brother. It won't be ready by the end of the harvest."

"Good. It will be accounted for in my collection."

"Did you hear what I said? It won't produce any crops this season."

"Your family's inability to use their land effectively is neither my concern nor the concern of your king. I will collect as though you knew what you were doing."

"As you see fit," Bjorn said through clenched teeth.

"I'm done here, take me back to the hall. I'm thirsty."

Bjorn trudged through the grazing fields, past the thralls and barn and back into the hall. Hasvir muttering numbers to himself all the way.

"You, thrall," Hasvir pointed toward Helgi as they entered the hall. "I need mead."

Helgi bowed low. "And do you require anything, Bjorn?"

The word 'no' had not yet escaped his throat when Hasvir snarled.

"This is the brother of your jarl, slave. You should not speak to him as though he was a common man! You will call me 'drengr' and him 'huskarl.' Am I clear?"

Helgi's eyes were wide. "Yes, drengr. Do you want anything, huskarl?"

"No, I am fine." He held up his hands and tried to give Helgi a reassuring smile behind Hasvir's back. His lover's eyes glanced to him but the fear didn't leave Helgi's eyes.

Helgi bowed once more and rushed toward the kitchens.

"You let your thrall's dishonor you," Hasvir sat at one of the tables, and leaned back his hands behind his head.

Bjorn sat across from him, he tapped at the dagger by his side. "My family has honor enough."

"That is why your family wastes all they have. They have honor enough. They have food enough. No need to improve their land. No plans for advancement."

"We-" Bjorn stopped himself. He could not shove their plans down the pompous git's throat no matter how he wished . Pointless and foolish. He needed to keep a cool head. Fror trusted him to be calm.

"Where is the girl, Maeva? The king told me too give a message to her."

"My sister? She went out fishing yesterday. I don't know when she'll be back."

"Pity."

"I could deliver the message."

"No, it is for her alone. You will deliver three more barrels of grain to King Ivar, or the equivalent in silver. Understood?" The collector's eyes gleamed.

"And what are we supposed to eat?" Bjorn rose to his feet. Three barrels? That would feed their home for a month.

"Fish."

Helgi came out with a large cup and placed the drink before Hasvir.

"Finally," he grabbed the mug and took a huge gulp. "What is this?"

"Mead," Helgi said quietly.

"I asked for ale." Hasvir swung his arm, slamming Helgi across the brow. Helgi fell to the floor, his head cracking against the ground. "And refer to me as drengr."

Bjorn leaped out of his seat and rushed to Helgi's side. "Are you alright?"

There was a gash across Helgi's head where Hasvir struck him. His eyes were unfocused. "I'm fine. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

"Pathetic," Hasvir muttered. There was a clang of metal coins on the table. "There, that should be more than enough for the damage to your property."

Bjorn whirled back toward Hasvir. His hand collide with the flesh of Hasvir's cheek. Hasvir sprawled on the ground.

"Bjorn!" Helgi got to his feet. "It's alright, I'm fine. He didn't hurt me."

Bjorn shook his hand to get blood flowing back into his knuckles. "Helgi, get me my axe."

"Are you fucking mad?" Hasvir picked himself up and spat blood at Bjorn's feet. "Do you know what attacking me will do? Over some cocksucking thrall?"

"You have dishonored yourself and my home. You have disregarded our hospitality."

"You hit a free man. I struck an arrogant slave, and paid for the damage caused," Hasvir sneered as Helgi ran to Bjorn's side and handed him his axe and unsheathed his dagger. "Come boy, you will find I'm not as easy to murder as your father."

"I will not dishonor myself with murder. I leave that to your kind. We will fight before the gods and let them decide what is just. I challenge you to the Holmganga."

Hasvir's beady eyes darted back and forth. He was no fool, facing a longaxe with only his dagger would end in his death. "A duel then. We will fight on even footing?"

"Of course."

"Good." Hasvir darted forward and threw his arm. Bjorn's eyes closed as the fist collided with his face. His head snapped to the side. His mouth filled with blood as his teeth ripped the inside of his mouth.

"Now it will be fair."

Bjorn pushed at the inside of his mouth with his tongue. None of his teeth dislodged, though several felt loose. "Helgi, lay down the cloak and find the gothi."

Disgust filled Hasvir's eyes. "Weapons?"

"Our own."

"Armor?"

"Did you bring yours?"

"I didn't think you'd be this stupid. No."

"Then we fight bare."

"My sword and shield against your long-axe?" Hasvir smiled.

Helgi grabbed Bjorn's shoulder. "Bjorn, this isn't- Bjorn without armor-" Helgi stopped as though he giving voice to his concerns would bring them to fruition. He was right to worry. The long-axe was a fearsome weapon, but without armor Bjorn had no real defenses. The shield would give Hasvir an advantage. "It's not worth this."

Bjorn took his hands. "Go, do as I asked."

Helgi pulled away from him and ran to go set the dueling site. Hasvir called for the thralls and servants travelling with him. Boys ran through the hall shouting soon a crowd gathered.

Knut ran toward Bjorn his eyes large with excitement. "Bjorn! Bjorn! Are you gonna fight? I heard you were fighting. Is it true?"

"Knut. Where is my brother?"

"Fror rode off with the two men yelling at each other."

Well that was some piss-poor luck. "Bester?"

"Went with Fror."

"Shit." They needed to know. He grimaced, either way this went there was no way this benefited the family. If he won, Ivar had his reason to strike them down. If he lost, well, best not think on that.

"Are you going to win, Bjorn?" excitement dripped from Knut's voice.

Bjorn glanced as several slaves opened the Holmganga cloak and placed it on the ground. "I'll have to. Knut, do you know where my brother went?"

"Yes, the yelling men were talking about Yelmin's farm. They went there."

"Good. I need your help. Get a horse and find my brother. Tell him what is happening."

"That's not fair. But I wanted to see the fight! I wanted to see you kill that man."

"I thought you wanted to help?"

Knut scowled but he turned and ran toward the horse pens. Good, the boy could ride well. Bjorn headed back inside to his quarters. He needed to think, he needed to prepare. To calm himself. He sat on the ground and placed his long-axe on his lap. A battle axe, not the heavy tool with which he hacked apart wood. Polished, and decorated, symbols of Thor and Tyr marked the side. Skjoldbroti, the Shield-Breaker, Giermundr named it when he first gave it to Bjorn. It was cool in his hands. He swiped at the air testing the weight, as light and powerful as ever. He breathed deep.

_Shit._

_What did I do? Shit. Shit. Shit. I ruined us. Fror trusted me to keep my wits. I failed him. I failed my family. Shit._

"Bjorn?" The warrior turned, Helgi stood at the entrance. The gash on his face dried, but his expression still pained. "Bjorn you can end this. Say it was all a mistake, you do not have to fight him."

"He struck you."

"I'm your thrall! And he paid for the damage. Neither you nor your brother's name was tarnished."

Bjorn set down his axe and grabbed Helgi's hands. "He struck you, and you are worth more than his coin. I need you with me for this, my love."

Helgi sighed. "Always. Be careful."

Bjorn kissed him. "Always."

He took Skjoldbroti and made his way to the dueling ground. Thralls hammered stakes into the four corners of the tattered and overused cloak. The gothi stood before the cloak. Hasvir to one side stretching his arms and jumping to get his blood flowing. Beside him a sword and three shields lay on the ground. His servants stood stone-faced around the cloak, hands placed on weapons.

"Bjorn," gothi Guntrund raised his hands high, the numerous charms and symbols of the gods he wore draping his arms clanked together. "You issued a challenge?"

"I have."

The gothi turned to Hasvir. "You have accepted?"

"Of course."

"Do either of you have final words?"

"Fili, Skern," Hasvir said to his two attendants. "If I should fall, tell my son he is my truest pride. And he will become a great warrior when he is of age. Let him know his father fought with the same honor he lived his life."

One of the two servants agreed to bear the message, while the other shouted encouragement. Hasvir turned to Bjorn, his turn to speak.

"My friends, should I fall, tell my brother I am sorry I failed him. Bury me beside my father. Hasvir and his men will be free to leave our land unharmed."

Bjorn met his opponent's eyes, Hasvir nodded and they both stepped upon the cloak.

"Fine words," Gothi Guntrund scratched at his scraggly beard as the two warriors set their battle stances. "Odin! Here two warriors both equal in strength and blood beseech you. Guide their arms and reveal to us who is your favored. Standing upon the cloak, both men will do battle. Withdrawing from the cloak is admitting your defeat. Otherwise the holmganga will last until one has either died or surrendered. No weregild will be paid for death caused by this holmganga. Do you both agree?"

"I do," Bjorn and Hasvir spoke in unison.

"Then fight before the judgment of the gods!"

Bjorn and Hasvir stepped carefully toward the middle of the cloak. Three meters wide and three meters long. Enough room to fight, but if one got distracted they could find themselves stepping outside the limits.

A step outside of striking range, Hasvir kept his shield raised. Bjorn adjusted his positioning, holding the handle wide. Not the best stance to strike, but defensive. The wood could take a few hits from the sword. Bjorn lowered his hands closer to the base, hoping the moment of weakness would compel Hasvir to strike, and get out from behind the shield.

No such luck. Hasvir stood behind his shield eager to let Bjorn make the first move, when Bjorn would not be able to defend himself.

Bjorn attempted a few feints, his axe flashing toward the foe. But Hasvir only moved his shield and waited.

_Odin, you couldn't give me a stupid opponent, could you? Or perhaps you gave one to Hasvir?_

Fine, if Hasvir would not open his defense, Bjorn would break through it. He roared and swung his axe at the shield itself. His weapon cut through the leather cover and sink into the wood. Hasvir's blade lashed out, but the force of Bjorn's strike knocked Hasvir's own shield against the side of the blade and the strike went wide.

Bjorn pulled and the axe popped free but dragged Hasvir a step closer. Too close. The sword descended within in finger's width of Bjorn's face.

"Shit." Bjorn stepped back, and Hasvir filled the space Bjorn had stood. The middle of the cloak lost to a tribute collector. Hasvir returned to his defensive position. Fuck.

Bjorn walked around his opponent. Hasvir's stance didn't have any weaknesses, but the shield. His axe split the leather covering and the wood beneath. He prodded the shield with the butt of his axe. Two swift strikes and the top of the shield began to wobble.

"Fuck!" Hasvir moved his shield about, and Bjorn's next strike scrapped harmlessly to the side of his target.

Bjorn shifted his hands and sliced low, when Hasvir's erratic movement lifted his shield too high.

"Aagghh," Hasvir howled as the axe sliced into his thigh and thrust his sword.

Bjorn raised his axe to parry, too slow. The blade pierced the muscle of his left arm. He roared and swung back, using the rear of his axe as a hammer he struck the side of the shield.

Crack! The shield splintered and broke. Wood dropped to the cloak.

"Shield!" Hasvir snarled and threw the ruined shield to the side.

Hasvir's attendants ran forward with the second of the three shields he could use in a Holmganga. Bjorn took the moments reprieve to check his wound. It stung, it would need to be stitched. He flexed his arm, it would hold out for the fight. It would have to.

"The first shield is broken. Hasvir are you ready?" Gothi Guntrund asked.

"I am."

"Continue!"

Hasvir rushed at him, shield first. His sword behind his shoulder.

"Shi-" The shield slammed into his face, a spout of pain enveloped him. He raised his axe on instinct, Hasvir's sword cut a notch into the wood of his handle.

The rim of the shield hit him in the gut. Blood and spit spewed from his mouth and he doubled over. Pain enveloped his back and down his leg. The cloak rose up to him.

"No!" someone cried. The world looked unfocused. People stood around him, shouting. It hurt, it all hurt.

"Yield." Something pressed against the side of his head and pushed. "Yield and prove yourself a coward.

Hasvir. That shit Hasvir. He hurt Helgi. He's stepping on me!

"Fuck you." Bjorn twisted his head. Pain enveloped his face, but the pressure slide to the side. He grabbed at the foot and pulled. Hasvir stumbled to the ground beside him.

Bjorn crawled overtop his opponent, pain pulsing through his body as he grabbed at Hasvir's sword arm.

"Get off!" Hasvir slammed his shield into Bjorn's side. A sharp crack reverberated through his body.

He struck Bjorn two more times before the bigger man pinned the shield with his other arm. Hasvir thrashed beneath Bjorn trying to reach either of his arms free. But Bjorn held on until the struggling slowed.

Hasvir's eyes darted about, looking for some way to get the upper hand.

"Yield," Bjorn said, blood dripping from his mouth onto Hasvir's face.

"Never, slave-lover."

Bjorn slammed his forehead onto Hasvir's nose. "Yield."

"Hela… take you. Cocksucker."

Hasvir's arm slipped free and grabbed at Bjorn's face. He pushed back, his fingers found Bjorn's eyes.

Bjorn's head pulled back, giving Hasvir the room he needed. His fist struck Bjorn in the stomach, the same spot his shield hit him. Bjorn screamed and Hasvir shoved him off.

"Die!" Hasvir found his sword and raised it high. "Die you bastard!"

Bjorn rolled away from the strike, his back scrapped against the stake at the corner of the cloak. Out of room, but he felt something hard by his hand. His fingers grasped the familiar handle.

"Die!"

Hasvir sword slashed, too wild, too slow. But Skjoldbroti struck true. An ear-piercing scream silenced the crowd as the collector's hand, sword still clenched in its fist, flopped onto the cloak.

"You fought well, yield."

Hasvir swung his shield at Bjorn's face. Misjudging the distance, it flew past Bjorn's brow and sent Hasvir sprawling.

"Yield!"

"And live a cripple?" Hasvir swung again, Bjorn blocked the attack with ease. "I will die a drengr. A warrior. I will see Odin's hall."

"Think of your son."

Hasvir tried to swipe low, Bjorn stepped to the side and placed the handle of his axe between Hasvir's legs. Once more he was on the ground.

"Yield."

The man struggled to stand but slipped on the blood slickened cloak.

Bjorn stood behind him and smashed the back of his head with the butt of his axe. Hasvir hit the ground. Bjorn loomed over him, Skjoldbroti ready to strike. But the man did not move.

Bjorn grabbed his leg and dragged him off the cloak before he collapsed, panting.

"Hasvir has abandoned the field! The gods have declared Bjorn the victor!"

The crowd gave shouts of encouragement and bursts of song. Bjorn let his eyes close as praise washed over him. Then other words spread through the chant.

"Coward! Weakling! Bastard!" his people shouted. "Coward!" Bjorn opened his eyes. His warriors and thralls standing over Hasvir and laughing.

"Quiet," Bjorn muttered, Hasvir fought well. Whatever else the man was, he was brave. But the chanting did not stop. He struggled to his feet. "Quiet!"

The crowd's chant sputtered and stopped before all in attendance looked to Bjorn

"Tend… tend to his wounds. Make certain he still breathes."

Servants and thralls surrounded Hasvir. Except one.

"I have you." Helgi wrapped his arm around Bjorn's chest. Even Helgi's touch could not sooth the pain. Bjorn tried to step toward Hasvir's servants, but his legs buckled and he nearly fell, had Helgi not pulled him close. "Lean on me, my love."

"I need to look strong," Bjorn whispered.

"You already do. And you'll look no stronger if you land in the dirt."

No use arguing with him. Bjorn put more of his weight on Helgi's shoulders and limped toward Hasvir. "Wait, wait," Bjorn stopped and reached toward the ground. Moaning as he grabbed the fallen sword by the blade. Hasvir's lost hand slipped free from the grip.

Helgi helped lift him back upright and they returned their slow march.

"Here," Bjorn held out the sword, pommel first toward one of Hasvir's servants. One of the two Hasvir named, Fili or Skern stepped forward.

"We cannot take it. It is yours, won fairly."

A fine weapon, old but well maintained. Runes in iron dedicating the weapon to Thor lined the blade its pommel encased in silver. A weapon worthy of a great man.

"This is a family's blade. I will not take it. Give it to Hasvir's son, so someday he can learn to be as fierce an opponent as his father."

"Generous."

"I want there to be no bad blood between our homes."

"I will see what I can do."

The servant nodded and went back to his master's side. Around him the crowd continued to cheer for his victory. Bjorn raised Skjoldbroti high. He would need to deal with Ivar. But for now, he let himself enjoy his victory.


	4. Mission 3: Trouble at the Mill

Fror and his companions rode back into Giertvedt. The farmers dispute abandoned, they had not been pleased by him delaying his duties. But Fror had no choice, he had to stop his brother's idiocy. But there were no crowds cheering for a duel, in fact his household seemed to avoid him. Rushing away as he rode near. Hasvir's ship was no longer docked in the harbor, and Fror breathed a sigh of relief. Had the man won he'd have stayed to demand some compensation. Bjorn was alive.

"Where is he?" Bester shouted as they reached the Hall. The thrall slid off his horse as, with an agility that surprised Fror. "Where is Bjorn?"

"Freyrdi took him inside." one of the thralls answered. Bester already ran ahead as quick as his old legs could take him.

"Thank you," Fror said as he entered his home. Every slave, freedmen, and warrior saw Fror coming and fled out of his way. _What could possibly have possessed Bjorn to do something so fucking stupid? The exact excuse Ivar needed to bring death to their hall, and Bjorn gave it to him. Maeva had not returned with her two ships of warriors. Defenseless, any battle would be a slaughter._

_I can't let it come to an open battle._

Fror pushed aside the door to Bjorn's chambers. Bester and Helgi loomed over the bed, blocking Fror's view. On the other side of the bed, Freydi and one of her assistance, stood over Bjorn herbs and symbols of luck sat on a stool and bloodied rags sprawled on the floor around them.

"Brother. You awake?"

"Yes," came a weak voice from behind the kneeling thrall.

"Freydi, how is he?"

"Ribs and nose broken, two teeth lost, other bruises and cuts. He'll live."

"Good. Everyone out."

The thrall women gathered their herbs and holy charms and nodded to Fror as they passed. Helgi kissed Bjorn's hand before he and Bester followed the women. Fror looked down on his brother. His face looked lopsided and discolored, his nose swollen and lips cracked. The best warrior Fror had left, and here he lay a broken mess.

"Fror, brother. I'm sorry-"

"Don't start anything. I said that. Don't let Hasvir get beneath your skin. I told you what would happen. I told you."

"I'm sorry, brother."

"All these years, I thought I could rely on you. I'd expect this kind of shit from Rokr! I should have put you on a ship and have him act as my speaker!"

"I'm sorry," Bjorn laid his head back and closed his eyes.

Fror grabbed the stool and placed it so he sat near his brother's head. "What the fuck happened?"

"He hit Helgi."

Fror sighed, that fit. Romantic fool. "Is he alright?"

"Hasvir? I think he-"

"Helgi. Is Helgi hurt? I don't give a shit about Hasvir."

"He will be fine. Cut along the head. Knocked some sense out of him for a bit."

"Good." Fror felt his heart still beating in anger, but he couldn't keep shouting at Bjorn. He'd done worse things for his wife's honor.

"I'm sorry."

"Stop saying that." The brothers sat in silence, as Fror worked through the information. "Hasvir, what did he say Ivar needed in tribute?"

"Three barrels of grain. I told some of the thralls to start collecting it before Freydi worked on me."

Fror nodded. "Good, your wits haven't completely left you. We'll send Ivar four. A symbol we're still loyal. The fight was between you and Hasvir, nothing he needs to concern himself with."

"Do we have enough grain? You think that will work?"

"Of course not, but it might make him think we're less of a threat. Hopefully delay his retribution until Maeva returns with enough to get us through the winter."

"And if he attacks now?"

"Then we're dead. Heal fast, I will need you," Fror left the room, still scowling. Helgi and Bester stood outside. Bester paced along the hall, Helgi leaned against a wall his hand twitching.

"Jarl Fror," Helgi immediately knelt on the ground, bowing his head to the ground. "I- I want to apologize for any trouble I caused. I did not mean-"

"Oh, stand up," Fror's scowl depended. "Free men don't grovel."

Helgi's head snapped up, his eyes growing wide. There it was, the cut on his brow Bjorn mentioned. Barely a scratch, and yet it started all this mess.

"Next time someone strikes you, I expect to be paid your full weregild. Go see to my brother."

"Thank you. Frigga bless you, thank you!" Helgi scrambled to his feet and reached for Fror's hands.

"I am still your jarl, and I gave you an order. My brother. Now."

Tears in his eyes, Helgi ran into the room. Good. That done, Fror looked to Bester. "You want yours, too?"

"My freedom?"

"You've more than earned it, without you this place would fall apart."

Bester smiled, but shook his head. "Were I a young man, with everything Helgi has in front of him I might be tempted. But I have no need for empty titles. Were I free, I'd still be by your side, looking after Geirmundr's home and family. I am content."

Fror nodded. "Thank you, old man. Now we have work to do. Can we spare four barrels of grain?"

"No."

"We'll have to."

* * *

"If you do this, my family will starve!" Skula slammed his fist against the table. He looked terrible, the last time Fror had seen the man he had wished Fror and his new bride good fortune. A jolly man with a bit more pudge on him than was healthy. That was several years ago, now his gut had shrunk, and his eyes were sunken and angry.

"I know this will be hard. But we need the grain," Fror sat opposite the farmer. The third such visit today, none of them went easy. Every farm looked the same, small, cold, and barren.

"Everyone needs the grain! My daughters are already skinny, I don't have the money to hire more help, and it wouldn't do good if I did. The crops aren't growing."

"Unfortunate, but I will get the grain from you."

"I can't believe what I'm hearing. When that slave of yours came last month, I paid my tribute. It was too much, but I did it. Because I knew that Geirmundr and his boys always looked after us. All my days I have been loyal to your family, and you have always been fair to me and mine."

"We still are."

"You're killing us!"

"Ivar demands more."

"Then fight him! You're supposed to protect us."

"Alright, Skula. How will I fight him? You'll take up arms, of course. But that won't be enough. Perhaps I will put spears in your daughters' hands and place them in my shield wall? Will that suit you?"

Skula opened his mouth to argue, then slumped over head in his hands. "You're killing us," he whimpered through his fingers, his voice cracking.

"There is one other option," Fror said, when the man looked up and wiped the tears from his eyes.

"What? Anything. I'll do anything."

"You have too many mouths to feed. You cannot pay your necessary tribute. Fathers have given up their children for less."

"No."

"The choice is yours, but I will not be leaving this house until I have something I can give to Ivar."

"I am a free man, my father was a free man, and his father before him never felt a chain. I will not make a slave of one of my children." Skula stood up, his body shaking.

"Then I need the grain."

His fist clenched, and strayed toward the knife on his belt.

"Skula, if you touch that blade, I will kill you, take all everything I find and leave your daughters to fend for themselves."

Skula's hand floated over the knife he looked at Fror, his eyes bleary. Fror would be able to draw his sword before Skula reached him. When that happened it would be over. Fror knew it and Skula knew it. Skula broke. His body sagged then collapsed into his chair. Tears streamed down his face and matted his thin beard.

"Take your time to control yourself, then call for your youngest or weakest. Whoever contributes the least." Skula buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shook. Fror sat, watching the famer. Was he supposed to do something? Words of shared sorrow? Tell Skula it had to be this way? Nothing that came to mind sounded genuine. _Damn Bjorn, getting himself hacked up. He'd know what to say. Something to at least soften the blow. _

"Edla! Snafrid! Jorunn! Na-" Skula's voice cracked. "Nanna! Get in here!"

Four girls entered the room from deeper into the home or outside. The eldest stood nearly as tall as her father, and didn't look any healthier. The smallest only a child, her head looked too big for her body. They all wore discolored cloths from working in the dirt. Skula went to his knees and embraced all his children.

"Father, what's wrong?" the eldest asked. Fror could only see the man's back, but knew that the man's tears returned from his shaking. He turned away, it felt wrong to watch something so personal.

"My daughters, I need you to know I love you. All of you."

"What's wrong?" One of the younger children repeated the question.

"Nanna's going to be going away."

"Where am I going, papa?" the child asked.

"You'll-you'll," the man's voice cracked.

"You'll be coming with me," Fror stepped forward, looked down at the family. "You'll be well cared for."

"Father, no!" the eldest pulled away from him, her voice hard as iron. "You can't do this."

"I don't have a choice."

"What's going on?" the little girl asked, "Papa, why is Edla angry?"

The two middle daughters pulled away as well. Only the youngest clutched to her father, too frightened to move. Skula held on as tight as he could.

"He's selling you," one of the other daughter's whispered.

"No. Papa wouldn't. You wouldn't."

"I'm sorry," Skula could barely spit the words out. The child wailed, and buried her head in her father's shoulder.

"You can't do this!" the eldest snarled. She turned to Fror, her finger jutting toward him like a blade. "You can't!"

"I'm your jarl. Your father can't pay his tribute, so we were forced to come up with an alternative."

"By taking my sister from her family?"

"Yes."

"There has to be another way."

"I could take your farm. You'll wander homeless. With few months until the snows I don't see your family surviving. You might make some money selling yourself. I doubt you'll make much, but men do get lonely in winter."

"Arrogant dead-eyed bastard, how dare you?" She raised her fist. Was this idiot going to strike him?

"Edla, you can't. He's the jarl," one of the two middle children pulled her arm down.

"Listen to your sister," Fror said. "She has some sense."

"I won't let you take my sister."

"Skula, I do not have time for this. Finish your fair wells."

"No!" Edla slammed her first against the table. "You are not taking Nanna. Father, please, do something!"

The farmer looked between his daughters and Fror. "There's nothing I can do. I'm sorry Edla. I'm so sorry Nanna. We'll buy you back. Next spring I will sell everything I can. I promise you, we will get you back."

"I don't want to go, Papa. Please, don't make me go."

"You're not going," the eldest, Edla, walked to Fror and glared into his eyes. "Take me instead."

The room silenced, Fror looked at the girl in confusion. "I don't think that's a good idea."

"Neither is taking my sister from her family."

"You can work the fields, she can't,"

"The crops aren't growing! It doesn't matter who can work when the fucking wheat is dead!"

"Skula?"

The farmer stood, staring at his daughter, mouth agape. "Edla, I can't let you."

"Hush, I'd be married off and leaving the farm in a year anyway. This saves you that cost," she spat out the words. The two middle children ran to Edla and grabbed at her, whispering and crying their feelings.

"Fine," Fror said. "Get what you need. I've already been here too long."

Edla shot him a venomous look, before she turned back to her sisters. "Jorunn," she kissed the next eldest sister's head, before she took the ornamental key from her belt and handed it to her. "You need to work the accounts, check all of father's math. He's terrible at it."

"Yes, Edla."

"Snafrid, I need you to grow up, now. This isn't fair. When I was your age mother was still here. But it can't be helped. Your family needs you."

"I will," the child's hands wrung at her dress. She looked on the verge of bursting.

"And Nanna," Edla took her from her father's arms. "I love you, very much."

"I love you, too. I don't want you to go. Please don't go."

"I have to, but it will be ok. Your sisters will protect you. In a few years I'll buy my freedom and come back. Ok?" Unlikely, Fror thought darkly. Freedom could take a lifetime to earn unless a thrall's skills were in short supply, and there were hundreds of skinny farmers.

"Promise?"

"On Frigga's smile, I promise," she kissed Nanna's head then handed her back to Skula.

"Father?" She finally looked to Skula. He held out his arms, but the girl backed away from him. "If I hear that you tried to do anything like this again. I do not care what happens to me, I will break my chains and hunt you down like a dog." She turned and headed toward the door. Skula stepped back, until his back touched the wall and he sunk down. Fror had seen stab wounds that looked less painful.

Fror nodded to the family then followed her. Outside, Bester sat in front of a cart, behind him a half empty barrels of grain.

"You were in there for too long, we still have three more farms to get to. Who's this?"

"They had no grain. I took different tribute."

"Unfortunate. But, we do not have room for more. You can't let your compassion get the better of you. We need the grain, not slaves."

"Compassion? You call this compassion?"

Fror untied his horse, and jumped onto its back. "Edla, I let you speak ill of me, because I understand that was a trying time for your family. But if you use that tone against me again, your tongue will be taken out. You're my thrall now, understand?"

Her eyes narrowed with hatred, but she nodded.

"Good, get in the cart," he kicked his horse and the headed toward the next farm. A few moments later he heard Bester's cart followed him.

Fror did not return to his hall until late into the night. Cries, screams, curses, and tears hounded him at every farm. But by nightfall he had his four barrels of grain. Once they reached Giertvedt their horses were taken to the barn and thralls gathered the wheat to prepare to be delivered to Ivar. Fror headed to his hall, with Bester and his new slave in tow.

"Brother!" Bjorn sat at the main table. His face still half-hidden beneath bandages. "I kept the cooks up until you returned. You must be hungry." Bjorn struggled to stand, Helgi put his arms under his shoulders to support him. "I've got it, I'm fine." Bjorn waved Helgi off, and used the table to push himself to his feet, and hobbled over to Fror. "How'd it go?"

"We got our grain. Late, but that will have to do."

"And who is this beautiful young lady?" Bjorn held out his hand to the girl. She tentatively took it and looked between Fror and Bjorn in confusion. Before giving a small nod and stepping away.

"Skula couldn't pay, this is our new thrall."

"I'm sorry to hear. We'll find warm lodgings for you…" he left the sentence hang, hoping someone would fill in the girl's name.

Fror opened his mouth, before realizing he had forgotten it himself.

"Edla," she said.

"Edla," Helgi took her hand and smiled. "I can't promise an easy life, but we treat our thralls well, here."

Fror raised his eyes. 'We' already? My wasn't Helgi getting comfortable in his new position. Bester directed Edla to the far side of the hall with the rest of the thralls.

"Any word of Ivar?" Fror sat down and the servants dutifully brought him bowl of fish soup.

"Nothing," Bjorn sat across from him, wincing slightly as he settled himself in. "I'm starting to worry. It's been almost a week, if Ivar sent an envoy it should have arrived today."

"Tomorrow, if he waited a day," Helgi said.

"Ivar didn't win his crown by delaying," Fror said between spoonfuls of soup. After only four chunks of fish Fror frowned as he noticed there was only broth left. "We need to prepare our defenses."

"And the grain?"

"We send it tomorrow. If there's a chance we can delay the attack, we need to take it." Fror lifted the bowl and drank the last of his meal. "Now, I need to rest. It's been a draining day."

Bjorn reached over the table and grabbed his shoulder. "You did what you had to do."

"Doesn't make it easier."

Fror left the hall into Giermundr's room. _My room_, he mentally corrected himself as he lay on the bed. His father's old trophies and charms surrounded him, quietly judging him. He stared at them until sleep overtook him.

He was lying in his old room. Small and comfortable, his wife atop him. Megana embraced him, teasing and joking. Her laugh filled the air more beautiful than any song sung by the greatest skald.

"I'm sorry, Fror." She stopped and looked down at him. "I loved you. I truly did."

The smile faded and the scream began. Blood, dripped from her mouth, her nose, and her eyes. The dagger dropped from his hands, as the blood kept pouring. He tried to hold back the wound, his hands covering her stomach. But it seeped through his fingers, until the blood surrounded him.

"Don't leave me," Fror screamed as the blood reached his neck. "I'm sorry. I forgive you. Don't leave."

The blood filled his mouth and covered his eyes. The last thing he saw was Megana's crying face. And the familiar shadow looming behind her.

His eyes shot open. He lay in his room, covered in sweat, his blanket tossed to the ground.

"Fror!" someone shouted. Clangs and the sound of people running through the hall.

"Fror!" Bester nearly knocked his door from its hinge. "Fror they're attacking the mill!"

"What? Who? Ivar?" he jumped to his feet and grabbed at his clothes.

"Alfhild!"

"Odin curse her!" Not now. She had to strike now? Fror quickly through his mail hauberk over his shoulders and grabbed his charm of Odin and rushed from his room, tying his belt around his waist to distribute the weight of the armor. To his side he saw Bjorn and Helgi stumble naked from their quarters.

"We fighting?" he shouted.

"I am, you're staying here."

"I'll be fucked by an ice giant before I let-"

"Fine, Bjorn, get to the weapons."

Bjorn rushed forward, made it several steps before his leg gave out. With a thunk Bjorn hit the ground. Helgi rushed to his side.

"Leave him," Fror stepped past his brother. "Helgi, grab a spear."

Helgi looked to Fror. "I- I don't know how."

"You're a free man," Fror growled. "An enemy is attacking your territory. Now grab a fucking spear, the thralls will bring Bjorn back to his bed."

"I can fight," Bjorn struggled to push himself off the ground.

"Bjorn, I will break your leg if you do anything but lay back down." _I will not lose my brother tonight. Iron-headed idiot_. "Come, Helgi."

Fror could hear Bjorn struggling behind them, but there was no time to waste alleviating Bjorn's ego. Helgi's eyes grew wide with terror, the color leached out of his face. Around them, the servants ran about attempting to arm the handful of huskarls that had not went on Viking.

Five. He had only five huskarls, and there was no way to call upon the thegns and drengrs that would normally make up his army. He couldn't face Alfhild with five warriors and ergi pretending he knows how to use a spear.

Fror stopped and looked at Helgi.

"What? What did I do?" his voice sounded more like a mouse squeaking than a man. But he'd look the part, in the dark.

"Go, get your spear." Fror turned back to the hall. "Bester! Vert! Thorberg! To me!"

Amidst the chaos three old thralls and servants found their way to their jarl. "Wake up every thrall and servant we have that can hold a spear. Man. Woman. Tall child. All of them."

"You're arming the thralls?" Bester asked. "Is that wise?"

"My family has always been fair to our thralls. Now's the time to see if it matters. Tell each of them, if they fight brave and loyal the cost of earning their freedom will be halved."

"Halved?" Vert repeated him. The cook closed his eyes to think. "I'd be free."

"After tonight, it's yours. Now go! Get everyone!" The three dispersed, and Fror ran back to the doors. Helgi stood by a horse, his hands wringing a spear. The five huskarls were armed and armored holding long-axes with the ease as veterans of a dozen battles and many more skirmishes.

"Helgi, stay here. You will lead the next force," He grabbed Helgi's shoulder. "My brother tells me you've greatness within you. I never believed him. Prove me wrong."

He'd hoped that would strengthen the man. If anything, Helgi only looked more terrified.

Fror placed his shield on his back. "The rest of you, we act as a vanguard and try to protect the mill," Fror leaped onto his horse and raised his sword. "Move!"

His huskarl's howled and roared as they charged toward the mill. The torches of the enemy came into sight, dozens of them. Soon the rough outline of men formed in the darkness. There must be a hundred, maybe more.

"Haha! There's enough to wet my axe!" one of the huskarls, Ulfr, shouted, and pulled ahead of the group.

"Ulfr!" Fror shouted, "stay together!" But the warrior continued ahead. "Shit." Fror urged his horse on, and raced toward the enemy. The rest of the huskarls rode beside him.

Alfhild's forces were in no formation, as they looted the mill and the surrounding homes. Ulfr's horse trampled over a man and whatever he held. But the horse lost his footing and fell. The warrior leaped from his horse, axe in hand and buried it in the shoulder of another.

He roared and waved his bloody axe, as glorious a display as it was foolish. Fror could not afford to let any of his few warriors throw their lives away. Three men surrounded Ulf, spears and axes jabbed at the laughing warrior. They scratched harmlessly at his armor, but it won't only take one lucky attack for Ulfr to fall.

Fror braced himself and directed his horse the animal knocked over one of the men. Bones snapped and the man screamed as the horse stepped on him. The next man stepped out of the way of the horse, only for Fror's sword to slash him across the shoulder. The last one took Ulfr's axe to the neck.

"Stay with us!" Fror shouted down to Ulfr."

"You can stay with me!" he laughed and charged at more of the looters.

Idiot. "The mill!" Fror commanded the few that remained with him. "We protect the mill." If they could get there they could use the walls to protect themselves until the main force arrived.

Before them Ulfr hacked down a path, until the other horses overtook him. Axes and swords swung low to strike any exposed flesh they could see in the dark. A man with a spear pointed toward his mount's chest stood in his way.

"Hold!" he pulled back on the reins. "Hold," but the horse couldn't slow in time. The spear caught him in his chest, but thankfully scraped along his side instead of stabbing through into his heart. The animal screamed and raised its legs kicking at the spear. Fror slid off the back and rushed forward, his sword knocking the man's spear away from his horse.

"Fuck you!" the man tried to bring his spear back into a position to strike, but Fror kept his blade upon the shaft of the weapon and stepped forward. Letting the spear guide his aim he slid his sword directly into the man's armpit.

"No, no, no," the man dropped his spear and reached for the knife at his side. "No, no, please." The last struggle of a dead man. Fror grabbed his arm and cut down with his sword, taking the man neck. His arm struggled to get out of Fror's grip for a moment, before his whole body went limp. Fror dropped the twitching mass at his feet and turned to his horse.

The wound looked deep, and the horse paced about him in pain.

"You've done everything I could ask. Go! Go!" Fror smacked at his rump with the flat of his blade. His horse took off, he'd find his way home. Less likely that one of Alfhild's raiders would steal him while he finished this battle.

The mill lay meters before him, men rushed in and out with weapons. Inside he caught the glimpse of long silver hair.

Alfhild.

Today the Valkyrie-Born dies. Fror took his shield from his back and held it firm. "Huskarls! To me!" Each of the remaining warriors took his side. A wedge of mail, their long-axes ready. Two breaths, one to steady himself the other for courage. Then he charged.

They barreled through Alfhild's forces. Spears and blades slid harmlessly off their steel hauberks. Fror raised his shield to protect his face. He battered one man to the side, stumbling into the waiting axes of the huskarls. His sword sliced through flesh, muscle, and bone.

One of his huskarl's took a spear to the chin and crumpled. Another screamed as an axe burst through the rivets of the mail, though he continued the charge.

"Valhalla awaits!" a man screamed, and slammed his mace into Fror's shield. Fror yanked his arm back in pain. The steel boss in the center of the shield warped with the hit. He couldn't move his hand, something sharp was pressing into it.

Fror punched with his shield, the edge hitting the man in the chin. He stumbled back, and Fror's shield thrust forward. It pierced his chest, and caught in the man's ribs. The raider's body went limp, and took Fror's sword with it.

Fror scowled and tried to tug his weapon free. The body flopped a few times, but the weapon did not come loose. Fuck.

He grabbed the dead man's mace and continued toward the mill. He adjusted his grip on the shield and pain shot through his fingers. It felt like one broken, maybe two. But they had made it, the mill stood before them. Shadows moved within the darkness, Alfhild and her guards.

The wedge made it to the door, Fror entered first. Alfhild smiled and waved her guard to stand down. Seven stood beside her, well enough to overrun the three Fror held with him. He recognized the men with her, they drank at Geirmundr's funeral and sang of his exploits. Now they held blade, axe, and mace the look of murder in their eyes.

"Geirmundrson," Alfhild let him enter. "You arrived earlier than I thought." Her warriors circled around Fror and his remaining men. "Charging at me with your best, bold. I didn't think you had it in you."

Fror held his sword out, pointed toward Alfhild's face. If he attempted to strike her men would cut him down. No good plan.

"Tell me, where's your pet bear? I've been waiting for him. I haven't had a worthy fight since the last time I dueled your father. I've heard that he is Odin-blessed."

"He is."

Her smile widened. "Good, good. Where is he?"

"Coming with the reinforcements."

She stepped forward, within the reach of his blade. Fearless. "I don't believe you. He's not for reinforcements. Tell the men to watch for a berserkr in the night. He's got to be off killing someone." She turned her back to Fror and went back to her line. "We need to bring him out, cut them down. That'll set him off."

"Challenge!" Fror's voice surprised even him.

"Yes, yes. When your pet gets here." Alfhild waved at her men to continue.

"No," Fror met Alfhild's gaze. "Not Rokr. You will duel me."

"Hah! You don't have the edge, boy. Word came over the hills of the disappointment Geirmundr had in his eldest son. No guts to him. Weeping over the woman that made him a cuckold. No, I wait for your best."

"Coward. Too old, too afraid to fight. This is the Valkyrie-Born that caused my father such grief? I heard you followed the old ways. The gods ways. I gave you a challenge."

Alfhild's smile shriveled, "I won't waste my energy on the weak. Not when Rokr is close. Fine, boy. You want a duel? Slighter, kill the kid."

A tall thin man, with a golden beard and a crooked nose stepped forward. Magnus the Slighter, one of Alfhild's best. He was covered in mail from head to knee with only his face exposed. In one hand he held a wicked looking axe, in the other a thin seax dagger.

"No waiting, no cloak. We fight until you die," the Slighter said, his voice oddly high.

Fror nodded and the man lunged at him. Fror barely moved his shield forward in time to knock the seax away, and he stepped back. Slighter whirled axe and seax. His weapons darting around him to confuse his opponent.

Then he struck, axe high and dagger low. Fror raised his shield high to match the heavier axe, only to wince as the pressure made his already crushed fingers sear with pain. Fror parried the seax and Magnus stepped away out of reach as soon as he realized his attack had failed.

Fror adjusted his grip on his shield, and heard his fingers make a sickening pop as they got into place. The Slighter moved about Fror, bobbing and making small half jumps, his hands continuing their dance. Then mid-step he was on Fror again, his seax aimed toward Fror's neck.

Fror's breath caught in his throat. His shield arm shot out, too sloppy, too low. The dagger scrapped across the shield and turned up. Fror yanked his head back as the dagger pushed forward. Blood spilled from his cheek and dripped into his beard.

The Slighter stepped back, away from Fror. His laughter cut through the air. "Slow and weak. I'd hoped to work up a sweat."

_I'm losing. My sword outranges his dagger and his axe. I should be controlling the fight. How am I losing?_

The enemy stepped into range and stabbed then bounced away from any reprisal. Over and over, he danced around and Fror couldn't keep up. Each time he blocked he felt the pain shoot through his fingers. I won't be able to keep my grip for long.

"By the gods you're a boring opponent," Magnus said. "Attack! Move! Something!"

Three more strikes Fror blocked, waiting for his opponent to make the attack he wanted.

Then Magnus stabbed his seax once more toward Fror's neck. Now! He held his shield wrong, he felt the dagger slide toward his eyes. Then Fror pushed forward as hard as he could. Magnus's blade struck high, scrapping across Fror's helmet. All while Fror's shield kept moving, pushing Magnus's seax away from his center.

Fror stabbed at the opening in the mail near the Slighter's chin. The axe came up to deflect the blow. The weapons collided, Fror's sword edged to the side. But not far enough. He sliced through the side of Magnus' neck.

Blood spurt out as the Slighter dropped his weapons and stumbled back. His hands gripped the wound, but blood continued to fly with each beat of his heart. Until the blood stopped, and the Slighter lay unmoving on the ground.

_I won_, Fror stared at the body in disbelief. _How did I-doesn't matter._ Fror glared at Alfhild. "There's my edge, Valkyrie-Born. Are you ready to meet it?"

Alfhild's eyes were wide, as she looked between Fror and the corpse. "Perhaps you are Geirmundr's son." Slowly her lips curled into a smile. "But your positioning is still shit. Boys, slaughter his huskarls. Leave the kid alive."

"No!" Fror hacked at the nearest of Alfhild's warriors. "Head to the door! Get out of here."

The thick clash of metal on metal rang through the air. Alfhild's men lashed out at his men. Fror stepped before the blows of his enemy. If he lost any more of his few remaining warriors, he'd be dead. Alfhild could rush into his Hall unopposed.

He prayed that the men held true to Alfhild's command. Thankfully his prayers were answered, weak cuts scraped across his armor. The warriors pulled back their strikes rather than risk killing the one their leader commanded them to keep alive.

Using his body as a shield, his warriors manage to make it outside. Only to be greeted by the mass of raiders they had fought to get there.

"Back to back! We hold!" The huskarls formed a tight circle axe and sword pointing toward the enemies that surrounded them. _So this is how the Fates determined I would die. I can't say I don't deserve it. I'm sorry Bjorn. I'm sorry Maeva._

_I wish you better luck without me._

The horns blared in the distance.

"What now?" Alfhild sneered as she exited the mill.

Once more the horns sounded. Spears appeared from behind the hills, then the heads of men. Soon the army of Giertvedt marched toward their foes.

"How?" Alfhild stared in disbelief. "You did not have that many men."

"Surrender, Alfhild. Surrender and I will be merciful. For the kindness you showed my father."

Alfhild spat. "Ready a line! Shield wall!"

"Jalkona, we don't have time," one of her huskarls said. "Our men are too scattered. We need to leave."

Helgi and the slaves overran some of Alfhild's warriors that had strayed too far from the mill while they pillaged. Their dying screams rang louder than the horn.

"No!" Alfhild screamed at Fror. "Where is he? Where is the berserkr?"

"With my army."

"That doesn't make sense. I need this!"

"Jalkona, we don't have time for this. You'll face him later," the huskarl grabbed her shoulder.

Her eyes never left Fror as her axe swung. A moment later her own huskarl fell to the ground. Fror stepped away in shock. The warrior grabbed the wound on his throat and shoulder. He looked at Alfhild, he tried to speak but only a gurgle of blood and air came from his lips before the man collapsed into the dirt.

"Burn the mill down," Alfhild snarled. "If I can't use it then let these fuckers starve with us. Then signal the retreat."

Fror's mouth dropped open. He needed to stop them. But if he broke the circle he and his warriors would be cut down. There had to be something. He needed to think. He needed time.

The flames did not wait. Alfhild's men threw their torches into the mill as they ran. Soon the building blazed and most of Alfhild's force disappeared into the night.

The thralls continued their advance. As they drew closer their inexperience became clear. The shield wall was uneven and full of gaps. They held their spears at odd angles, constantly getting in the way of those behind or to their sides. More a mob than an army, their lack of discipline only masked by the darkness of the night.

The few raiders too slow to run fought with deadly desperation. Hacking at the untrained thralls, before they were crushed by numbers alone.

"Go," Fror commanded his huskarls. "Protect the shield wall, I don't want any more of my people to die tonight." His men broke their tight circle and ran, Fror jogged behind them. Exhausted, he struck down the few mad raiders that came into his reach.

By sun rise the raid finished. Fror collapsed on the ground, and stared at the black husk of the mill. Failure. He set out with one damn task: save the mill. Every loss, every death wasted. How many thralls did he just free? How many did he just lose? Geirmundr's been in the ground for a month, and already he'd doomed the household.

"You did it," Vert sat down beside him. "It worked, you drove off Alfhild."

"Hrmm."

"Your huskarl's are already singing your praises. They said you threw yourself before the enemy to save them."

"They're all fools then." Did they not realize what Alfhild had done? Not glorious death on the battlefield. They'd all die sick and starving in the cold of winter. How long until they realize and desert his home for any of the wealthier jarls that would take them in?

"What you said earlier, will you hold true to it? Will my price be halved?"

Fror looked at the man beside him. Vert held his arm bloodied from a cut, dust, mud, and smoke discoloring his skin and clothes. Yet despite the pain the thrall looked at him with hope. "Aye. You paid enough."

"Then I am a free man."

"Hrmm."

"Then let this be my first act as a free man." He stood and grabbed Fror yanking him to his feet. "Victory!" he screamed. "Victory! For Thor and Frigg! By Odin and Tyr! Victory!"

The shout was joined by others along the battlefield. A chorus of warriors, thralls, men, and women all screamed to the gods.

"And who brought us victory!" Vert called.

"Fror!" Helgi said.

"Who trusted us to defend our home?"

"Fror!" the thralls shouted.

"Who shielded us with his own body?"

"Fror!" the huskarls roared.

"Then hear me, all those who saw his valor today. This victory belongs to Odin and Tyr as all victories do. But this dawn belongs to Fror Giermundrsson! To Fror Thrall-Friend and Shark-Eyed. To Fror the Living-Shield! To Fror the Deceiver!"

"To the Deceiver!" the crowd howled.

Vert stepped away from him, leaving Fror alone amid the crowd of screaming men. He would have given up his hall and all his holdings to be anywhere else.


	5. Mission 4: Through the Storm

_Open up. Open up!_ Rokr's tapped his axe against his shield. How long could it take to knock one door down? His men hollered as they bashed at the door of the church. With each thump he heard screams of the Christians that had barricaded themselves within its walls.

"Faster!"

His vikings grunted as they slammed their ram against the door. Three more strikes and a crack formed. Rokr cheered and his men cheered with him. Each time the ram struck the door the crack grew, until it became wide enough to see the cowering southerners inside.

He was so close. He could feel the blood of his enemies spurting upon his face. He could taste the salt in his mouth. His hands continued to tap his axe, quicker, more urgent.

"We got it!" one of the ram-holders called as the top of the door burst, raining chunks of wood on the defenders. His vikings kicked away at the rest of the door until the hole was wide enough for a man to enter. The quick witted among the Christians abandoned their position and grabbed weapons.

The berserkr laughed as the last of the door cracked beneath the weight of his men. One warrior stood in his way. Rokr slammed the rim of his shield into the man's side sending him sprawling and out of his way. The last obstacle was gone Rokr swung his axe and felt a Christian's skull split like a melon from his strength. Another strike hewed a man's arm off.

One big bastard tried to hit him with a long knife, but the blade caught in his bear pelt. The gift of Odin churning beneath his skin. He could feel it wanting to get free, to slaughter everything before him. Two more fell before him, and he waited. But the trance did not come. He would not receive Odin's blessing this fight.

_Maybe for the better, can't make slaves from the dead. _

The remaining defenders threw down their weapons and shouted something in their ugly tongue. Probably begging for mercy. He'd grant it, for most of them. But Odin was not yet sated.

One of man wearing ornate robes and a large pointed cap held his arms wide. The Christian cross in his hand. Strange words shouted as though they'd save him and the people behind him. He spoke loud, but Rokr could see the fear in his eyes.

Rokr's axe took him in the shoulder and the man crumped to the floor. Too old to be of any use, he needed to go. The people behind the man screamed, several cried and clutched at their god's symbols of luck. Not that it would do them any good. The Christ could not stand before the All-Father. No god could.

Then the hunt for wealth began. Rich fabrics with silver plates and candlesticks, a single golden goblet laid on the altar where these weaklings worshiped their impotent god. Perhaps he was only a god of wealth? That would at least explain why they had so much yet were so terrible at defending it.

Rokr prowled through the church, until he reached the back rooms. Someone's living quarters, or so it looked. Bed, desk, and chest all intricately etched and cleaned until the wood shined. A large book laid across the desk. He glanced down at the pages and saw only strange looking letters. He flipped through a few of the pages until he came to a colored picture. Pretty, but it looked like nonsense, with some small man next to a tall man dressed in armors. What looked like Valkyries with trumpets along the edge of the image. He flipped through a few more and grimaced. An image he'd seen before, their dead god hanging.

Rokr grabbed a handful of painted pages and ripped them from the binding before tossing the rest of the book to the ground. Someone would pay some silver for good art, even this Christian nonsense. He searched around the room, finding a few more coins and some parchment, ink and, a box. He pocketed the coins and opened the box.

At first he didn't recognize what he was looking at. A map clearly, but, of where? So many details, so many rivers. More markers of cities than Rokr could count. It couldn't be all one island. His hands shook as he realized what he held. All of Christendom lay in his hands. No need for merchants, or scouting raids. This could lead toward a full war unlike anything the North had ever seen.

He folded the map and tucked it under his arm as he headed back toward the rest of his men. They rounded up the last of those worth enslaving and dragged them with their treasures back to the ship. Rokr made certain his men left the building before dumping lantern oil onto the ground.

"Thank you, Odin Wisdom-Bringer, accept this as an offering for your guidance," he whispered, as he took flint and stone and set the church on fire.

The Christians still inside screamed, loud enough for Odin to hear. _I hope it satisfies, until I can offer you more. Thank you._

As he headed back to the shore Rokr saw Maeva overlooking the process of securing their new plunder. Her eyes brightened when she saw the treasures that Rokr and his men brought.

"All this in the church?"

Rokr nodded, "took what we could, burned the rest."

"Good, how many men did we lose?"

Rokr looked back to his men. "I don't know. I think two, maybe more."

"You have to know these things, you're a leader."

"I did lead, I made certain I lead the charge into their church."

"That's not what I mean. When we finish here do a headcount, we'll want to have your crew up when we head back home."

"We're going back?" _No, we can't go back yet_.

"Our ships are full. Besides Halfdanr questioned a few of the captives. A large army of Christians are coming to defend the coast. Best not being here when they arrive."

"Piss on that. We can take them, none of these fuckers can fight half as well as our weakest."

"We lose men every raid. We have enough to last the winter, maybe more. That was the plan, we go in grab what we can and get back."

"No." Rokr unfolded his map. "We could do so much more!"

Maeva scowled as she looked down at the paper, then her eyes widened. "Frigga's tits." She grabbed the map from his hands, her eyes dancing over it.

"Odin revealed this to me! The Fates want us to stay in this land. Why else would they show me this?"

Maeva slowly folded up the map. "We take this with us. We will return, with more ships, more men."

Rokr snatched the map back. "Odin wants us to stay! To fight!"

"And how do you know the mind of the All-Father?"

"Because he chose me! He gave me my gift! He revealed this wisdom!"

"And when we return you will lead our people in battle. But Fror and Bjorn need us."

"Bjorn can take care of himself."

"I am not arguing with you, Rokr. I am ordering you. We are heading back to Giertvedt. Get to your ship."

Rokr glared at Maeva. She didn't listen. She never listened! Odin guided him, the gods wanted him to kill these Christians. They must. Why doesn't she understand? He wanted to explain, but the words couldn't come out. Rokr nodded and walked away.

"Every fucking suggestion," he muttered to himself. "She ignores every fucking thing I say. She ignores me, the gods, everything."

Rokr's fingers twitched on the handle of his axe. It would be easy to open her up. Turn right back to her and let his axe argue for him. He felt the glorious fury start to bubble up inside him. He relaxed his hand.

No.

Giermundr said to protect his family. Maeva fought bravely. Bjorn loved her as a sister. He stopped and took a deep breath. His head pounded in pain. It always hurt when he tried to resist Odin's call. He needed someone to fight, someone to release the will of the gods upon.

But there was no one to fight. Only men tying down the las to their plunder. Rokr closed his eyes to try and hold back the pain, then headed toward his crew.

"Get your shit tied down and take positions!" The men immediately went to the longboat to finish preparations for the journey. They do obey me, without question. _Maybe Fror was wrong. Maybe I would have been the better leader. I would at least follow the will of the gods. I could just take my ship and keep going. Without Maeva. The men would follow me._

"Rokr!" someone shouted. Two of his warriors ran toward him, one dragging a new thrall the other holding thick cloth.

"What?" Rokr tried to remember their names. Drexi? Dwalfi? The tall one definitely began with a D.

"Odin-Blessed we have a small problem," the short one pulled at the thrall. He looked younger than Rokr, no more than 14 winters probably. Young and weak. Tears streaming down his face. Images of a similar young boy crying in fear flashed before Rokr's eyes. The day the slavers came to his home, the day Odin revealed himself.

"Dwali is trying to use my space," the short one continued.

Ahh Dwali, that was it.

"It's better used." The tall one's voice rose, causing Rokr to wince as more pain shot through his skull "We're out of room on the ship. I already filled my area with loot, I need to use some of Brandl's.

"I'm using it! I have this thrall. I need him, my farm could use more hands. He's got no right to my space."

"What's worth more?" Rokr eyed the pile of cloth.

Dwali smiled and unfolded the garment. "Rich reds and full. Look at this, Ivar himself would be jealous. And this is just what I brought to show you. I found a silk merchant's cart. I took all the best. It's worth three times more than one small thrall, at least."

"Doesn't fucking matter. That's my space."

Rokr ignored the short one and examined the boy. He grabbed the thrall under the chin and forced his head up. The boy tried desperately not to meet his eyes but didn't try to break free from his grip. There was no fight in him. No, not like he'd been at all. Weak.

Rokr's axe took the boy in the neck. Blood spurted into his face as the kid hit the ground. The pain in his head lessened. Odin was pleased.

"No! That was mine!" The short one rushed toward him, a small dagger in hand.

Rokr pointed his axe at his face, and he stopped in his tracks. "Calm down. Dwali, you're using his space. Half the profits go to… him."

"But I found-"

"I could chop through all those right now and give everything still on the ship to… him. If you prefer."

Both men stood silent, their faces twitching in anger. Good, both equally angered and keeping their tongue still. That meant it was fair, and they respected his strength enough to obey his decision. "Now get to your positions." Rokr watched as the two men obeyed, trying and failing to prevent the smile that formed. His mind felt free. No more pain, no tension. He could think clearly on the journey ahead.

Rokr took his position at the head and shouted for the men to begin pushing the ship into the water. Moments later they sailed to the sea. Maeva's ship not far in front of his. They sailed for most the day, through The Vikings did not make it far before they stopped for the night.

They pulled ashore, fires were lit and meat plundered from the village roasted upon small fires. Rokr took his place beside Maeva. She did not look good. Her face looked pale, more than usual anyway and her skin seemed damp even though he had seen her wipe herself clean of the waters.

"Ill luck," Halfdanr said as he chewed on the meat they took from the last town. "It's looking like a storm is coming, and if we make as little progress tomorrow I don't know many safe stops. Most are too close to villages that will see our fires." The merchant did not look as soft as he had when the trip began, he'd gained muscle and his beard had grown long. Rokr could almost confuse him for a raider like the rest of them, at least until he opened his mouth.

"Well, shit," Maeva looked toward the darkened sky, before pulling a bright cloak closer around her shoulders. "We don't have time to wait out a storm."

"We push through, then. Our ships can take it," Rokr tried to make his voice sound confident, mature. Like how Giermundr always spoke.

"Best not," Halfdanr said. "I've seen too many good merchant vessels crashed because they thought their crew could take the beating. It hurts, but waiting is the right option."

"We aren't merchants. Odin will guide us."

"Maybe he'll guide you, Odin-Blessed. But in my experience Odin protects those who are guided by his wisdom."

"Coward."

Halfdanr stood up. "Fuck you, Rokr. I've proved myself, I've fought, I've bled, I've killed for you lot. None of you would even be here without me."

"Both of you, quiet. You're worse than-" Maeva sputtered and coughed, flecks from her meal spraying into the fire. "Worse than children." Maeva grabbed Halfdanr's arm and pulled him back down to sit, before the coughing fit struck her again. She waved off Halfdanr's attempt to aid her. "There's no point arguing over this now. Tomorrow I'll see how bad a storm we're dealing with. Then I'll say if we can try and get through or not."

"Hrmm," Rokr continued to eat in silence. Maeva and Halfdanr continued talking, something about the splendor of the great cities of the land. Impregnable walls and more people than imaginable crowding the streets. It sounded like fantasy, yet Maeva ate it up. If they did exist, why were they trying so hard to flee? Wouldn't there be more glory capturing one of them? Show the Christians the Danes are people to fear. Done with his meal he wiped his fingers on his pants and walked back to the men. They sang and danced, ate or had their way with slaves.

He watched them for a moment, wishing he could join in their fun. But whenever he drew close the men backed off, keeping a respectful distance. For months they've travelled together, but he still felt no kinship with any of them. Even Maeva, who he knew for years, drew closer to her merchant every day.

_I need to fight someone. Anyone._ He looked through the crowd to find someone picking a fight, or setting up a wrestling match. Seeing nothing, Rokr made his way to a tree and prepared a simple bed of leaves. He used his bear pelt as a blanket and went to sleep.

In his dreams he travelled far away from this land. To Geirtvedt, where they were welcomed with open arms. Bjorn and Fror smiled down at him. But the war was over. With the wealth of the raid they paid off King Ivar. The lands went back to peace and Rokr was forgotten. He felt his body age and wrinkle. His strength sapped from his arms, his teeth fallen out. He'd be old and useless. The younger warriors would laugh at him, having no fear of the once great Odin-blessed. He'd die a useless husk. His gift and life wasted.

He heard the crack of Thor's thunder. His eyes opened, and in the grogginess of sleep he saw the sky turned black. No stars shined through the thick clouds, even the moon hid from sight. Only the coming storm filled the sky.

"Odin Warkeeper and Thor Thunderer," Rokr whispered. "Keep me in this land, for just a little while longer. Let me fight in your names, and I will be your eternal servant. I need another battle, one last fight to show my devotion to you."

Should he say something more? Will the gods know his dedication to them as sincere? He couldn't let his dream come true. He preferred the violent death that befit him over that end. He needed to know the gods heard him. He should get up, sacrifice something to them. But his eyes began to close as sleep returned. _Please, hear me_.

* * *

No sun shown in the sky the next day, or the day after that, or the next three days. Only lightning lit up the sky in large flashes. The Vikings huddled together beneath wooden tents they had quickly built. Several thralls died in the rain. Sickness travelled through the camp and did not discriminate between thrall or Viking. The stench of the dying filled the air so thickly that even the smell of rain could not wipe it clean.

"What's the plan?" Rokr asked Maeva on the fifth day. They stood upon a small hill where the trees were not so thick. Maeva stared off into the sky, looking toward the patch of sky not covered by rainclouds.

The sickness hit her hard, there were days that Rokr worried she would not make it. But she pulled through, far too stubborn to let it bring her low. Though she stood tall as she watched the sky, Rokr noticed how she planted her shield into the ground, how she held it to support her weight. Every few moments her body would sway, before she forced herself to stay still as stone.

"We can't," her voice was weak she coughed and started once more her voice firmer. "We cannot stay here longer. We have a gap in the rains, we need to take it."

"Hrmm," Rokr nodded. "I'll get everyone moving."

"Thank you," Rokr left her on the hill and headed back toward the camp.

He shouted for the men to ready up the longships. People swore and protested, but Rokr simply glared at them until they obeyed. It took too long for Rokr's liking for the plunder and healthy thralls to get secured. And for the unhealthy and weak thralls to be sacrificed to the gods. Rokr oversaw their work ordering the warriors to hurry when he saw them dallying.

Halfdanr broke off from the men and headed toward him. Rokr growled as the merchant drew close. "Where's Maeva?" Halfdanr asked. "No one's seen her since you two went off. You didn't…"

Fuck, where was she? "Keep preparing the ships, I'll go find her."

Halfdanr seemed relieved. Rokr turned away before the merchant could open his mouth again. He walked back up the hill. "Maeva!"

No answer. Where was she? "Maeva!"

He pushed aside a few bushes and swore. Maeva lay on the ground, struggling to move. Fits of coughs and spasms rocked her body.

Rokr ran to her, "Maeva, hold on."

"What? Rokr?" Maeva's voice was quiet.

"I'm bringing you to the ship." He grabbed her arm and tried to lift her to his shoulder.

"No, Rokr. No time. The Christians."

Rokr looked down at Maeva in confusion. "Hmm?"

"Look, over the," she coughed again. "Look."

Rokr searched over the ridge of the cliff. "Shit." Large ships with giant sails with strange designed dotted the sea. They were going to pass right past his ships. They'd see them.

"We need to go. Can you walk?"

"I'm" she coughed again. "I'm fine. Go tell the ships to shove off. I'll meet you there when I can." She sat up and gave a weak smile. "Go."

Rokr stepped away from her and stopped. She was too weak to walk, that was clear. Did she just not want to let her men see her weak? Was she truly willing to stay behind just for her pride? He took another step away from Maeva. But she did command him. The entire raid would be in his hands. Where he could go wherever he wanted. He only needed to leave behind one of the most infuriating yet bravest people he met.

"Rokr! Go!"

He grabbed her and threw her arm over his shoulder, so he held up most of her weight. Rokr rushed toward the ships, half dragging Maeva beside him. She struggled for a moment before letting the younger warrior carry her down the hill to the ships.

"Should have left me," she whispered. "I'm slowing you down, the ships need to be gone."

"Hrmmph," Rokr said as he ran the rest of the way to the beach. When they reached the shore the men turned confusion etched on their faces.

"Positions," Maeva said, her voice quiet and weak. "Get to your positions." The men didn't move.

"Positions!" Rokr shouted. "The fucking Christians are here! Move!" The men ran to their ships shouting and cursing. Prayers to the gods filled the air.

"Thank you," Maeva said. "I don't think we'd have survived this trip without you."

What does someone say to that? In the end, he only nodded and gave a small grunt. Maeva let go of Rokr and shuffled to her ship.

"What of the sick?" Halfdanr looked back over the men. "Half our crew can barely stand.

"Then those that still can better row twice as hard," Maeva said and took her spot near the front.

Rokr ran to his ship. "Push!"

Soon the two ships slipped into the water, and the Christian ships came into view. Rokr screamed for his men to row all the harder. The healthy men strained with all their might. Some valiant sick tried to take up the oars, only for their illness to quickly overcome them.

Too many sick and slaves, not nearly enough warriors.

For half a day the two ships sailed across the waters near the shore. Behind them the Christian fleet grew ever closer. Rokr's arms grew numb as he continued the push and pull of the oar. His drummer hunched over vomiting into the waters.

"Dwali!" Rokr's voice cracked like a child. "Dwali get here."

The tall man came to his side, breathing hard and wet with sweat and sea water. "What?"

"Take up the drum."

"I don't know how-"

"You got arms don't you? Take the stick and beat the fucking drum!" He should have cut him in half instead of the damn slave. Fucking useless.

The tall man took up the position and managed to make a roughly steady tempo for the oarsmen to keep. Rokr glanced behind them, the ships seemed even larger. Their huge sails filling the air like clouds more fearsome than the storm.

"Faster!" He roared. Dwali looked at him, terrified, but picked up the tempo.

It didn't seem to matter, the Christian ships cut through the water like an axe through unarmored flesh. Fine. If the fuckers catch them, he'll make Odin proud. He'll hack them apart one at a time. Some dark part of him grew happy. There would be more to kill today.

In front of them, Maeva's ship turned away from the shore.

"Huh?" Rokr muttered as he let go of his oar and headed toward the prow of his ship, to get as close as he could.

"Maeva! What are you doing?"

A moment later, Maeva appeared on the stern. She looked like Hela sucked all the life from her. She said something that he couldn't hear.

"What?"

"Into.. storm!" Maeva tried to shout. "Lose…"

"Oh," Rokr said. Had her sickness finally reached her mind? The storm would tear their ships apart. "Fuck it." He twisted the steering oar and the longship turned toward the stormclouds.

"Are you insane?" someone screamed. "We'll be torn to pieces."

"Aye," Rokr nodded. "But so will the fucking Christians if they follow us! Keep rowing!"

The dark clouds grew before them. Only lightning arcing through the sky lit up the path before them. "Thor Thunderer guide us," Rokr whispered. Rain fell onto their ship, a steady drip preparing them for the downpour that would soon engulf them. The waves grew larger and shook the ship. He looked behind them. Five of the Christian ships continued their chase. "And let them feel your anger."

"Take down the sails!" Rokr shouted as the wind grew violent, they'd only grow worse in the storm and tear his ship to pieces.

The rain fell harder, buffeting his head and shoulders. Behind them some of the thralls screamed in their ugly language. Others tried to start some chant, probably to their strange god.

"Fucking silence!" What if Thor heard them? What if he confuses us for the Christians? But the thralls continued their chant, and Rokr feared if he let go of the steering oar to punish them the waves would knock them about.

Lightning flashed through the sky, some touching the sea before them. Each wave threatened to capsize the ship and caused the steering oar to twitch one direction or the other. Rokr swore and snarled as he tried to hold the oar steady, and follow the path Maeva lead.

Her ship slipped through the water smoother, angling just right to avoid the harshest of the waves. She had always been a better sailor, and with each wave her longship pulled ahead of them.

"Row harder! Harder you cunts!" he shouted. They needed to go faster, didn't these idiots realize that? "Faster!" But the two ships drifted steadily away, he wasn't even directly behind Maeva anymore.

Then Maeva turned, away from his ship. Rokr tried to correct his path to at least stay close.

Someone moved on the stern of Maeva's ship. Rokr squinted trying to see through the dark and rain. Maeva flailed her arms and screamed her words unintelligible in the storm.

"I can't hear you!"

More waving and silent screams. She looked like he pointed to the side away from her. Did she want us to go that way? That would take us even further away from her. Fuck it, I'm not going to question her. He shifted his steering oar to the side, the oar creaked and strained in his hands but stayed strong. The ship's path twisted in the choppy waters until it headed away from Maeva.

The shook and a loud scrape filled the air. Rokr looked over the side, he could barely make out the rocky outcropping between his ship and Maevas.

He looked back toward the other ship to thank Maeva, but she must have gone back to her position. Before the barely visible rocks grew into the starting of a small island, cutting the two ships off from each other.

"I'll meet you on the other side!" he screamed into the storm. _Idiot, there's no way she can hear me_.

He angled the steering oar to get far enough away from the island that the waves wouldn't crash his ship into it.

"Slow the beat!" he shouted to Dwali. The oarsman stumbled then started a slower tempo on the drum. Good, they needed to be careful here, he couldn't see the island's size. He did not want to rush straight into rocks. Alright, now he needed to get rid of the access water.

"Buckets!" He shouted. Some of the sick and wounded grabbed buckets and pots and threw the water that pooled at their feet over the sides of the ship. But the rain and waves worked faster than all the men on his ship. The ship sank deeper into the water, making her sluggish to Rokr's steering.

"Look out!" someone screamed above the rain and thunder. Rokr turned and saw a massive wave crash onto the ship. Water slammed into his chest and face and knocked him to the floor. He skid across the surface of the ship only stopped when he struck the side wall.

He gasped for air, but only water slurped down his throat. His chest stung and his heart pounded so loud he felt it reverberate through his body. The wave receded and Rokr coughed up sea water. He shook his head to clear his blurry vision. Men draped across their oars or picked themselves off the deck.

"Brace!" Rokr shouted, another large wave headed toward them. He ran to the side closest to the wave and hunkered down below the wall. The water crashed against the ship, rocking it almost to its side. Water splashed over his back, his feet slipped and landed hard on his elbow.

People screamed over the thunder. Rokr pushed himself to his feet, pain shot through his arm. The screams, where- shit.

Half of the thralls tied together floundered in the water. The other half struggled on the deck to keep from being swept into the depths with them. Beside the slaves almost a dozen of his men dotted the waters.

"Hold them!" Rokr pointed to the thralls. Some of his men grabbed onto the rope and pulled the thralls back onto the boat. The first came out of the water screaming. His tied leg that the sailors used to pull him up clearly broken and flopped about.

Rokr waved at his men in the water. "The thralls! Get to the thralls! Climb!"

Some few got his words and began swimming for the chain, pulling themselves over the sobbing slaves back toward the ship. When the first of his men got close to the ship, Rokr grabbed his arm and pulled him over onto the deck. The man rolled on the floor shaking and coughing as he struggled to stand. The second Viking climbed overtop the thralls, and held out his hand for Rokr.

The berserkr grabbed his arm and flung him in before grabbing the next.

"Another wave!"

Rokr turned and snarled. The wall of water was too large. It would pull the chain of slaves and drag the whole ship under water.

"Fuck!" Rokr nearly slipped as he ran to the weapon's chest. He grabbed his favorite axe and charged back to the chain.

"Let it go!" he shouted. The Vikings moved away from the rope.

"No! No! I'm so close!" a viking frantically tried to climb up the slaves to the ship. "No!"

Rokr's axe swung hard and split the rope in two. The waters swept the thralls and those Vikings climbing them away. For a moment they screamed in rage and fear. Only to be silenced by the wave that engulfed them.

The sea water crashed down directly on Rokr's back. He slammed onto the hull, air forced out of his lungs as he flopped to the ground. He rolled to his side and stood on wobbling legs. They couldn't stay here, they'd be torn to pieces.

"Positions!" he bellowed and clutched at his wounded side. "Row! Row!"

He grabbed the steering oar and positioned the ship away from the shore, that had grown steadily closer from the crashing waves. Perhaps the lost men would find their way to the island. If they did not, Rokr prayed that Odin would find them worthy in the afterlife.

The Vikings rowed, leaving those lost behind. The waves that continued to shake the battered ship shrank as they pulled away. With no threat of capsizing Rokr gave a breath of relief. The storm rolled away from them, likely only a small pocket between the clouds. But still, every moment of peace felt hard earned.

Cheers and cries of thanks rang through the ship as the rain turned into a light mist. Rokr felt the winds pushing at his back, the storm was moving the right direction. Maybe, he'd be able to hide in this pocket until they make it around the island. The clearer skies allowed him to see at least.

Something moved through the dark of the storm heading toward the clearing. Rokr's relief shriveled into rage as the Christian ship breached the storm. It entered too close to outrun, even if they re-entered the storm the winds and waves would slow them down enough to be caught anyway. They couldn't have been following them, they had to have been blown here by the storm. Thor brought the Christians here. But, why?

A low moan grew through the Vikings. They all knew it in their bones, they didn't have the numbers to fight off one of those massive Christian ships.

"Odin and Thor, Tyr and Frigg, how have we wronged you?" Rokr whispered. No way around it, they would need to fight. Best not to hold it off. "Weapons!"

The tired, weak, and sick ran to the weapon's chest. "Swords, axes, and maces. We're going in fast and aggressive, not holding back in a shield wall." It'd be shit on this deck. It'd all be shit. What were they going to do? Die as a shield wall only three deep or die as a disorganized mass. Either way they're dead.

Very well. If this is how the Fates want them to die, then it will be over a mountain of dead Christians. The last battle he had always hoped for. The last battle, the one he asked for. By the Aesir. No, this wasn't what he meant.

Rokr's eyes bulged. His prayer to Odin, one more battle. The gods weren't punishing him. He was the Odin-Blessed, they gave him what he asked. His heart beat in chest faster and faster. He felt wet drool drip from his lips. If this is what Odin wanted then let the blessing consume him.

"Toward the ship!" he roared, his voice slurred. His muscles twitched, he started tapping his axe onto his shield mimicking the beat of the drum. "We're ramming the fuckers!"

The longship may be smaller and slower than the Christians massive vessel, but there's no way that thing could maneuver half as well. The men started rowing the opposite direction, and the ship swiftly started to head toward the enemy.

The Christians tried to turn out of the longship's path. Rokr grinned, just as he thought, the ship turned too slow, no way to avoid the dragonhead. The Christians seemed to realize his strategy. Black lines rose up from the enemy ship and arced through the air.

"Shields!"

The Vikings raised their shields above their heads. The deadly rain of arrows and bolts struck them. Heavy thuds filled the air, quickly followed by the screams of the unshielded thralls. Rokr felt two arrows embed themselves into his shield. Their force shot pain through his already wounded arm. They tried to kill him like this? Like cowards? Fuck them.

When the volley ended he lowered his shield and tore the arrows out. None of his men seemed dead, though a few suffered small wounds where a stray arrow had hit the meat of their arm or leg. The thralls were not nearly so fortunate. No time to worry about them now. The Christian ship loomed just ahead of them.

"Brace!"

He grabbed the steering oar and tensed. A crack louder than even the thunder of the storm filled the air, then their ship abruptly stopped. Rokr stumbled forward, only his hand on the oar kept him on his feet.

"Reverse!"

His men rowed backwards just enough to reveal the hole in enemy ship they made. Not big enough to sink the ship, but enough to slow it down.

"Look out!" someone screamed. Above them, the Christians threw large barrels and stones down on them, as their crossbowmen prepared their guns. Rokr dived over the side of the ship as a barrel crashed right where he had stood a moment before.

The water felt hard as he splashed into it. The heaviness of his axe started to drag him lower into the water. Rokr struggled to swim, to keep his head above the water.

His ship pulled away, trying to avoid the barrage of the Christians. Fuck, fuck, fuck! If he swam back to his ship he'd be target practice.

No, this is not how he dies. Odin would not allow it. He looked at the hole they'd rammed in the ship. Just big enough for someone to squeeze through. Rokr hooked his axe on the ledge and pulled himself up and in. The shattered wood scrapped at his arm drawing blood as he flopped down on the ground.

Rokr struggled to his knees, and felt a hand grab his shoulder. A moment later that hand flopped on the floor, the man holding his stump into the sky and screamed. Rokr twirled his axe and laughed. Three Christians looked at him terrified. Unarmored and holding wooden planks and hammers to fix the breach.

No real weapons, Rokr dealt with them quickly. Their blood spattered his face and their screams filled the chamber. As he wiped the blood of dead men from his eyes, Rokr heard the shouts and thumping of men on the deck. They'd be coming for him.

Let them. The time for axe and blood had come. He felt Odin's blessing stir inside of him. His arms shook and he stomped his feet and jumped. Letting the blood flow through his veins. Ready to spill the blood of others. His saliva ran down the side of his cheeks.

He bit the edge of his shield and felt the pressure in the back of his jaw.

Several men ran down the stairs, one stopped and looked horrified at the pile of bodies and the berserkr that danced among them. Rokr let the shield slip out of his lips and screamed. They needed to die.

The blessing felt wonderful, as it always did. His body moved with only Odin as his guide. His shield knocked one to their feet while his axe met another in the neck. He made his way to the stairs his blade cleaving those that stood before him. Each strike hitting precisely where it needed to be, past shields through guards. Each cut severing a limb or splashing blood into the air.

One man raised his shield just in time to stop his attack, and stood shouting at Rokr and waving a long falchion.

This one dared to defy Odin. He needed to die, painfully. His axe lopped off the man's arm, then when he screamed in pain, Rokr turned his blade and struck up into his stomach. He shook his axe, trying and dislodge the crying man from his weapon. No good. He placed his foot on the man's face and pushed, until he popped up with a wet slurp.

Rokr looked up the stairs. The deck above, should he go up them? Face the enemy head on. Yes, that would prove to them Odin's strength. He took one step and snarled. Something felt wrong. Something told him to stay down. The upper deck was bad. Why was it bad?

He never questioned Odin's guidance before, he would not do so now. He waited at the bottom of the stairs and roared.

Soon a second wave of men came down, some armored in the bulky armor of knights. Let them come and meet their pathetic god. When the first neared the middle of the stairs Rokr leaped forward, his shield smashing the man in the face. The knight toppled over the side of the stairs.

The next lunged forward with the two-handed swords Rokr'd fought so often on this raid. They were fast and nimble, but too long for the confines of a ship. Rokr met the blade on his shield and pushed it aside, knocking it into the wall. With a flick of his wrist his shield smashed into his opponents visor, and wrenched his head aside. Rokr's axe came down on the man's neck, the rings of mail popped open and his blade sunk deep into the knight's flesh. He slumped over dead, without hesitation another warrior took his place on the stair.

Arms reached out behind him and enveloped him. The knight that he knocked off the stairs had gotten behind him. The man stood tall and lifted Rokr off the ground.

_Fuck! Fuck! I'll kill him! He dares to stop me! Kill him! Kill him!_ His mind screamed with Odin's fury. The knight before him raised his sword to stab into him. Rokr's legs kicked up pressed against his chest and arm and pushed. The knight holding him toppled to the ground, Rokr landing heavy atop him. His grip loosened and the berserkr rolled to his feet.

"Die!" he screamed as he grabbed the man's helmet and tore it open. The knight raised his arm to block him, but Rokr's axe hewed into his exposed face splitting it completely in two.

"Come fight me, fuckers! Fight me! Die for me!" Rokr screamed, the knights descended the stairs carefully. Four of them moved together, a tall man with some strange spear-axe lead them, giving what sounded like instructions for the others.

Rokr roared at them and bashed his weapon and shield together. The big man roared back and slammed his spear-axe onto the ground. He dares mock me? Fuck him he dies, now!

The ship shook and crashed. Rokr felt his feet fly out from under him and he landed on one of the knights. His axe and shield landed beside him. Why did he fall? Didn't matter, a man squirmed beneath him. A man that needed to die.

Rokr snarled, grabbed onto the man's helmet and twisted. The knight struggled, he grabbed Rokr's hands tried to pull them off. Rokr batted them away and continued turn the helmet until he heard a loud crunch. The arms flopped to the side, and his legs started to twitch in the last movements of a corpse.

The other knights started to pick themselves off the ground. Rokr picked up his weapon and pounced on the big one with the weird axe-spear. The axe bounced harmless off the knight's armor.

"Die!" Rokr slashed down again, only for the big man to bat his axe away and shoved him back toward the stairs. Too much armor, it will take too long to kill.

Fuck it, there will be more to kill above. Rokr scrambled up the stairs, using his shield to steady himself. Men littered the deck of the ship. Some picking themselves, others running toward the side holding spears and bolts. One of the Christians looked at Rokr, confused for a moment then shouted and pointed directly at Rokr's face.

Rokr lopped off that hand and smashed his shield into his temple in a single whirling motion. But now everyone looked to him, good. Let them see their death. Let them witness Odin's gift in action.

The big knight lumbered up the stairs behind him, fast enough to make Rokr start moving. But far too slow to catch him. Men fell like wheat to him. Their screams were his prayers to Odin. Their death throes were his worship dance. Let the gods know Rokr was worthy of their gifts.

An arrow flew past his ear. Who fucking dared? His eyes fell upon one of the crossbowmen that stood shaking among all the others that loosed at something in the water. The voice in his head screamed that the thing was important. He needed to make them stop.

He roared and charged at the crossbowmen. The one that attacked him grabbed at those around him, and screamed. He had their attention.

He dived behind a mast, the bolts pounded into the wood around him. One sliced clean through the meat of his thigh. Rokr screamed in outrage, for there is never pain in Odin's Gift. The men tried to fiddle with their crossbows, trying to rearm their bolts with terrified shaking hands.

Rokr rushed the one that first shot at him. His axe cleaved his face in two. The man beside him stepped back in fear, his entire body exposed. Rokr killed him next. The others dropped their crossbows and reached for their daggers, as though they could match a berserkr up close with those puny blades.

Move! The voice in his head screamed. Rokr leaped to the side and rolled back to his feet. The knight with the spear-axe stabbed the air he had been a breath before. He turned and screamed something in that weird language of theirs and held the weapon back revealing another blade on the butt of the weapon.

What kind of ridiculous nonsense was that? The knight poked at him a few times with that spike, Rokr met each strike with his shield. The last he turned aside the knight was open! His axe descended to the man's neck, only to bounce harmless off the armor on his shoulder.

The knight swept his arms forward and the hammer at the rear of his weapon smashed into Rokr's shield. Pieces of wood flew back into Rokr's face. Half of the shield flopped over, only held together by the leather covering.

Rokr threw the now useless defense at the knight and stepped back. The man batted the shield away from him and began to say something in his ugly tongue. Rokr passed his axe between his hands, this one needed to die. His eyes darted around the body looking for some weak points in his armor. Inner elbow, back of the knee, under the armpit. That was it. None of them easy places to swing a weapon.

_This isn't fair! The fucker is cheating! Fuck him!_

Rokr snarled and swung at the man's head, the big man parried him with ease and swung at him with the his axe-blade. Rokr had to dive out of the way again.

_No_, the voice of Odin whispered in his head. _This does not stop the ship._ Rokr roared at the knight, he wanted to kill him. More than he had wanted anything in his life. But he must obey what Odin commanded. Rokr ran toward the side of the ship, the knight lumbered behind him. The axe-blade sliced toward Rokr's back, but the berserkr dived and rolled out of reach. Rokr ran past the riggings of the ship hacking at them as he passed. The ropes flew apart and snapped out wildly.

Then the ship shook again, and Rokr found himself flat on his face. He slid on the wet deck and smashed his head into the side. Pain blossomed through his head.

_No. Not yet_.

Pain, started to spread through the hole in his leg and the scratches in his arm and face.

"No, I'm not ready yet. Don't leave me," he whimpered. Odin left him, the clearness that filled his mind with purpose disappeared with him. He struggled to his feet, but his arms and legs felt like he moved through a mire.

"Rokr!" Someone shouted.

Rokr turned to the voice. His Vikings climbed onto the deck their weapons ready.

"Rokr! Come here!" Wulfr shouted and waved. Rokr limped toward them. The knight grabbed him, his weapon gone but a cruel spike of a knife in hand.

The knight forced Rokr to the ground. He tried to struggle, tried to swing his axe in defiance, but his arms wouldn't move. _Very well, Odin. Let the fates take me. See all the Christians I killed for you._

A javelin struck the knight in the chest, he stumbled back and slipped on the deck.

Arms lifted Rokr from the ground and carried him to the side of the ship.

"Careful."

"By the gods, look at him. How the fuck was he still fighting?"

"Watch his head!"

Rokr's arms went limp and his eyes closed. No something felt wrong, his axe. It wasn't in his hand. He needed to go back and get his axe. He couldn't lose it. He couldn't, but the darkness took him before he could order his men.

"He's waking up."

"His skull's cracked. How in Hela's name is he waking up?" The sound of heavy boots moved toward him. Rokr struggled to sit up. "Well, shit. He is waking up. Rokr, don't move!"

Rokr opened his eyes, Halfdanr and Dwali stood over him. His people had him. Not the Christians. He'd won.

"Where are we? What happened?"

"You've been unconscious for days. We made it away from the Christians."

"Why is he here?" Rokr motioned toward Halfdanr. It didn't make sense. The merchant sailed with Maeva.

"We met up once the storm passed," the merchant said. "Pure luck they happened to stop at an island near us."

"Maeva?"

"I-" the merchant looked pained. "She didn't make it. The storm swept her away."

"You didn't… you didn't save her?" Rokr snarled. He wanted to hit that fucking coward.

"We couldn't see her! We looked, but the storm was too strong."

Rokr leaned back and closed his eyes. No. He needed to protect Giermundr's family. That was his pledge. His oath to Giermundr and the gods.

"I should… carve you. Right now." Rokr struggled to push himself up once more before the pain forced him to his back.

"Rokr, we've mostly just been getting some supplies, and tending our wounded," Dwali said. "But now you're awake. We'll follow the Odin-Blessed wherever you lead."

The raid was his. For a moment his thoughts went to the map still locked below deck. Foolish, and ridiculous. The raiding was over, Maeva had been right. What of her? Could I save her? Was it possible.

"How long ago did you lose her?"

"Four days."

"Four days?" Rokr closed his eyes. It would be next to impossible to find her. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "Prepare the ships, we make our way home. We've been delayed too long already."

The two men nodded and left him to prepare.

"I'm sorry," Rokr repeated to the empty air. "I let you die. I lost your daughter. You trusted me, and I failed you."


	6. Mission 5: To Kill a King

"What excuse should I send this time?" Bjorn asked his brother, as he took the large stick from Bester's hands before the thrall had time to finish reading it. He snapped Ivar's latest summons in half. They both sat outside in the chill air, the first snows of winter beneath their boots. Fror didn't answer, his eyes never left the sea. No sails over the horizon, no word of Maeva.

Bjorn threw the stick out into the water and hid his smile. This was not a time for mirth or joy, even if it was the first time he moved his arm without feeling the sting of Hasvir's blade. If he could move, he could work. He would be able to do more for his home and brother than just offer suggestions. "We could tell him our cows are growing sick and we need to care for them?"

"No," Fror said as he pulled out a few blades of grass and dropped them, watching them flutter as they fell back to the ground.

"The reconstruction of the mill running into troubles then?"

"No," Fror repeated, as the last of the glass finished its decent. "No more excuses, we're out of time."

"We have to tell Ivar something."

"Tell him we'll see him in four days."

"You can't be serious."

Fror sighed and picked himself to his feet. "I am. It's over, my plan didn't work."

"Maeva and Rokr could still make it back, you give up on them too easily."

"It's not them I've given up on. My plan, my idiotic plan. I asked the impossible of them, and they paid the price for me. No more. I won't have Ivar storming Giertvedt just to get me. I'm going to Harald's Hall and I'll see the king myself."

"He'll kill you."

"Probably."

"You made a vow before our father and the gods, that you'd avenge him."

Fror sighed, "I won't see you in Helfheim alongside me, brother. The oath is…" he trailed off and looked away, toward the graveyard where father had been buried.

"Then I'm going with you." Bjorn stood up in a single smooth motion, silently satisfied that his body didn't ache.

"No. My lands will pass to you. I'll need you here to run things should I return."

"Now you listen," Bjorn towered over his older brother. Why did he always have to be so self-sacrificing? Almost like he sought his death out. "I'm the one that fought Hasvir. I'm the one that drew Ivar's anger. I'm going with you."

"Don't be a fool, he'll just kill you as well. Think of Helgi."

"He won't, and he isn't killing you neither." Bjorn grabbed Fror and drew him into a heavy embrace. "I won't let him."

"Bjorn," Fror whispered, "This won't stop Ivar's blade."

"Then we come up with a plan."

"My plans never work, I lost the mill, I lost our sister, and our greatest warrior."

"You organized an impossible raid in two weeks with none the wiser. You defended your home against our father's greatest enemy in one night with no army, while I was fucking useless. And this plan will be perfect."

"You don't know that."

"I do. I'm going with you, and my big brother will protect me. He's the most cunning man I know." Bjorn let Fror go. "Now, we need to make a plan."

Fror nodded and wiped away tears from his eyes. Bjorn watched the muscles in Fror's jaw move as he thought. "Do you remember when father took us to Harald's Hall, back when Ivar won the war against Harald?

"Aye."

"We'll need everything you and I can remember. Every door, where the thrall's quarters are. Everything."

Bjorn smiled. "You think of something already?"

"No, but we need to start somewhere."

The next morning, they set sail through the narrow rivers to Harald's Hall. They had no more longships, instead riding atop the knörr. The slower, wider merchant vessel at least gave the crew and their cargo space enough to stretch their legs. And enough room for the cargo below the decks and two horses tied down for their own safety.

A biting winter wind had picked up. Bjorn and the others pulled in their oars and relaxed upon the deck. The last six huskarls mingled with the common rowers and the ten thrall women Fror ordered aboard. Some of the men grabbed at the women, joking at their beauty and their desires for them.

Bjorn shuddered, remembering the advances the king had made on Maeva three springs past. Maeva had pulled a knife, but the king only found that more interesting. It took him all afternoon to calm Maeva down. If he hadn't been there, he was sure Maeva would have stabbed the man in his stomach. Maybe he should have let her.

_Maeva, where are you? Please be safe, we need you._

"So, you're selling us?" The new thrall from Skula's farm, walked past Bjorn to Fror, still at the head of the deck manning the steering oar.

"Hrmm," Fror grunted as he pushed the oar a thumbs width. No mood for talking, consumed by his fears and doubts. That was just Fror's way.

"So the promise you gave to cut our thrall-price in half, what becomes of that?"

"Hrmm."

"Stop bothering the jarl," Ulfr snapped at the thrall.

"We were promised, I took up a spear. I shed blood."

"I'll shed your blood if you aren't quiet."

"Ulfr, it's fine," Bjorn waved the huskarl to down. "The ladies should know. If all goes well, you will not be sold."

"And what if it doesn't go well?"

"Edla is it?" Fror said, finally taking his eyes away from the river.

"Yes," the thrall stepped back away from Fror, her eyes darted down. Few could hold Fror's gaze for long.

"If this doesn't go well," Fror said. "Then all of Geirtvedt will either starve or be attacked by the king. You'll either be taken as the king's thrall or be dead. Pray this goes well."

Edla fell silent after that. Fror turned back to the river. When she thought Fror couldn't see she glared at Fror's back in pure loathing. Bjorn couldn't help but chuckle, she looked at Fror the same way that he looked at their father after a beating.

"How much do we tell them?" Bjorn whispered to Fror.

"Nothing before we need them." Fror sighed. "Less who know, the better."

"It's still going to be a big risk, you think they can handle it?"

Fror scoffed. "No. But no use having them all worrying the three days to get there."

The rest of the day went without incident. Soon the thralls and huskarls were talking among themselves about their excitement at getting to see Harald's Hall. They swapped stories of King Harald the Castle-Builder, and the great battle between Harald and Ivar. How all the Danes divided between those two men. They even sang of the final battle where Harald's sword broke, and Ivar threw his opponent's ruined body over the ramparts of the very hall he built.

He had been just a boy, but he remembered Harald's dyed blond hair and friendly eyes when father took him to vow allegiance in the days of peace. Harald had always favored Giermundr for his strength and wisdom, it surprised no one when their father fought alongside the king even at the end of the war when Ivar's victory was all but decided.

Bjorn also remembered Ivar the day their father brought his siblings to swear their allegiance to the new king. Where Harald had always had a joke and a smile, Ivar looked harsh and angry. He belittled Giermundr, and mocked Fror and Bjorn. He only showed interest in Maeva, and it was not an interest Maeva wanted.

_Back to dwelling on Maeva again. She's fine. She'll be fine. When we return to Geirtvedt she'll be waiting, angry that we went ahead and killed Ivar while she was off on a ship. She'd yell at Fror and be angry for a few days. Then the family would be back together again_.

If he kept repeating that, maybe he could make himself believe it.

Soon the sun fell, and the ship docked to camp for the night. Some of the huskarl's had their fun with some of the thrall women. It'd be good to relieve some of their energy before they reached Harald's Hall and the fight that would follow. Bjorn didn't partake of course, none of the thralls had anything he was interested in. Besides, Helgi satisfied him enough. He wouldn't bed another without Helgi's knowledge. It felt wrong.

Fror didn't either, which was a bit more worrisome. It had been over a year since Megana died, and Bjorn hadn't seen his brother bed another woman since. No wonder he always seems on edge, he's probably about to burst. When the eating and rutting ended the men and thralls went to different spots to sleep. Fror declaring he would take the first watch of the night, and sat watching the road with his back to the fire.

Bjorn drew third watch, after another huskarl, Alif. The ground was soft enough for him to get comfortable and sleep took him easily. He did not wake until the first light of the sun began to peak over the horizon. Fror still sat staring at the road, moving just enough to show he was awake.

Bjorn silently stepped over the slumbering men and women.

"What happened to Alif?" he whispered as he sat down beside his brother. Fror didn't even turn to look at him.

"I decided to let him sleep."

"And what about you?"

"I don't sleep much anymore," Fror shrugged, never tearing his eyes away from the road. Shark eyes, dead eyes, that's how people described Fror. But Bjorn knew better. His brother could be warm and friendly as anyone else. But not now, now he looked like a shark waiting for his prey to appear before him.

"Are you alright?"

"Of course, I'm not," Fror said.

"How can I help?"

Fror laughed without mirth. "You can survive, and then take over as jarl."

"What? That would be the end of our line. I'm not planning on having sons," Bjorn tried to joke.

"Hrmm," Fror continued to stare out at the road. "Promise me this then. Should the plan go bad just run. Don't try to rush in and save me. Save yourself."

"Stop talking like that. It will work, it's a good plan. You'd see it yourself if you weren't exhausted. Get some sleep, I'll take over til morning."

Fror nodded, then slowly got to his feet. Bjorn watched his brother weave through those sleeping until he found a spot to lie down. One of the thralls shifted, when Fror stepped over her. Edla must be too frightened to sleep, poor girl.

Bjorn went back to watching the road. Nothing moved. By the gods he hated watch, it just left him alone with his thoughts. He tried to keep his mind occupied and thinking about Helgi. But his mind quickly descended into the stupor of boredom. A rabbit skittered across the road. Bjorn watched it hop back into the road. His eyes started to droop.

"No, can't sleep." Bjorn stood up and stretched. He needed to move, something to keep his focus. As he twisted his torso he saw the girl staring at him. Bjorn waved for her to come closer. She looked about for a moment in confusion. Bjorn waved at her again, and she finally stood up and carefully walked toward Bjorn.

"I won't bite," Bjorn said and smiled. "Are you alright?"

Edla bowed her head to Bjorn. "I couldn't sleep."

"Worried?"

"For my family. You're going against King Ivar, aren't you?"

Bjorn nodded, no point in lying. The girl deserved to know the truth.

"If we fail, the king will lay waste to Giertvedt."

"Aye." Bjorn sighed. "Though, the way things are going, it's only a matter of time he does that anyway. Or sends Alfhild or some other lunatic to raid us until we're nothing."

"And when the king does raid Giertvedt, he'll also lay waste to those that live nearby." Edla accused Bjorn with a voice sharp as any knife.

"Aye, when Ivar brings his army, he'll raid the nearby farms for food. Make thralls of any that oppose them. That's how war goes."

Edla collapsed beside him. Bjorn thought she sat in contemplation, until he noticed her quiet whimpers. He reached to her shoulders and pulled her to him. "It'll be alright. We have a plan, a good one."

"My father's farm is not far from the road between Giertvedt and Harald's Hall," she moaned. "My father is weak. He won't protect my sisters. They'll be taken, they'll become thralls like me. Or worse."

"We won't let that happen. Fror's the cleverest man I know. He beat back-"

"He used his slaves to fool a raging brute! Now he's trying to topple a king." She looked back over the rest of the sleeping thralls. "And by the looks of it, he's trying the same trick."

"Not exactly, but you will be a part of it."

"Does he want me to fight again? I almost died last time. See?" She grabbed at the base of her shirt and pulled up, to reveal a thin cut along her side. Barely a graze, but it must have been terrifying for her. "I don't want to die, just so that my family will be killed later."

"Your family won't die."

"How can you know?"

"I won't let that happen."

"Empty words," Edla pulled away from Bjorn's arm.

"What would you have me do then?"

Edla sat quietly for a moment. Staring up into the sky. "Can I warn them?"

"Warn them? Your family?"

"Yes. A message, can I write them a message?"

"You can write runes?"

"Yes, my mother taught me. Can't you?"

Bjorn shook his head. "Never had the head for it. Maeva learned easy enough, and Fror. Well, when Fror learned he read everything he could get his hands on. He'd skip out on weapon drills just to go read what the merchants brought whenever they came by." Bjorn smiled at memories of the old times, when his siblings played with him and laughed and competed. "Father hated it. Would beat him bloody if he found out that Fror ditched his work to read."

"So, you wouldn't have anything to write with?"

"Hold on, I think Fror may have brought something." Bjorn went to the ship and rummaged through their packs, until he found a smooth rune-stick and chiseling knife. "What are you writing?"

"With your permission, I want to tell my father what's happening so he can prepare to run."

Bjorn shook his head. Risky, should one of Ivar's men find it. Fror would never allow something like this. But the girl looked so happy, and she hadn't even seen her family. It couldn't be easy living life as a slave. "You can't explain our plan. You can't tell anyone we're going up against Ivar. But warn him that troubles may be coming to his farm."

Edla embraced Bjorn. "Thank you." She took the stick and went to writing. Bjorn felt a note of satisfaction, as he watched her write. The plan would work, he was sure of it. But, it cost him nothing to let a poor girl feel better about it. Well, almost nothing.

"Here," he handed Edla a coin. "When we pass through a town tomorrow, hire a runner."

"Thank you. You've saved my sisters," she tucked the coin and note away. "I don't know how I could ever repay you."

"Just stay strong and brave when we reach Harald's Hall. You will have more than earned it."

The two sat together until morning, talking about their families and childhoods. Edla couldn't believe some of the misadventures Maeva, Fror, and he got into when they were young. And she explained how each of her sisters made her proud with their strength and intelligence.

"Seducing another thrall, Bjorn?" Ulfr joked as the warrior rose with the sun. "And here I thought she wouldn't be your type."

Bjorn gave the huskarl a friendly shove. "Just keeping busy." He looked back over the camp, the rest of the warriors and slaves began to wake up. Except for his brother.

"Should we wake him?"

"Let him rest, he needs it. We'll wake him once the camp is packed and breakfast is ready."

"He didn't wake me for watch," Alif stood over them a worried expression on his young face. "Did I do something wrong?"

"No, he just wanted time to think through all the details of our plan. Give him a little longer to sleep then we'll head out."

Bjorn oversaw the morning rituals before bringing a plate of heated food to Fror. The men ate together, all of them joking and laughing. Except Fror, who merely nodded with a tight smile with each joke and song.

Once they all had eaten Fror ordered them aboard the ship. They sailed for the rest of the day, only briefly stopping in one small port town to fetch supplies. Bjorn noticed Edla run off to find a message runner, and he gave another small prayer to Frigg to keep her family safe. Then one more for the rest of his household.

When the sun and they pulled ashore, Fror ordered his huskarl's to stay with him while the oarsmen and thralls set up a camp. "Tomorrow, we finally reach Harald's Hall."

"And we're killing the fucker, right?" Ulfr smiled.

"We'll try. But it will not be easy. Harald will not allow us into his presence with our weapons. He will be surrounded by his huskarls and berserkrs."

"Whatever the fight, we're with you, Deceiver." Alif said. A chorus of 'aye' rose from the rest of the warriors. "What's the plan?"

Fror nodded. "Alif, I want you to ride ahead, off the road and out of sight. Take one other warrior with you."

Allf gave a nod to Ulfr who returned it, his smile growing.

"And what will you want us to do?"

"You were with our father when we were forced to vow loyalty to Ivar. Do you remember the servant's entrance on the side of the hall?"

"I remember."

"I want you and Ulfr to hide there and wait for the fighting to start. When it does, you're to flank and kill Ivar's guards. The servants should be preparing and washing in the early morning by the hill. If you need to kill them and take their clothing, do it."

Ulfr nods. "It'll be done, jarl."

Bjorn led the two away from the gathering as Fror finished telling his plan to the rest of the warriors. He already knew it, and the two needed to ride through the night. It would take longer to travel by horseback than by ship. "Odin's blessings." He held out his arm as the two mounted their horses.

Ulfr grasped it. "Tyr guide your sword."

When he let go, Alif did the same. "And Thor protect you." The two rode out into the night with the cheers of their fellows at their backs.

"The rest of you, get a good sleep," Bjorn shouted. "Tomorrow we kill a king!"

Bjorn followed his own advice, dreaming of Helgi and the rest of their lives as wealthy kings themselves. Together ruling over a territory, giving fair tribute to his noble brother. Maeva had her own land as well. And Odin himself gave Rokr a peace in his mind, so he could finally enjoy life beyond the edge of his axe. In his dreams life was finally perfect.

The dawn came too early. His dream melted away and the cold world greeted him. The big Dane stretched and got to his feet. Some of the women cooked a breakfast, while Fror gave them orders. After some confusion they started to tie the spare swords, axes, and daggers beneath their skirts.

Bjorn took the thin training mail and wore it under his cloths. The cool steel pressed against his skin, some of the hairs on his chest caught in the links and pulled whenever he moved. He'd be chaffed by the nightfall, but at least he'll be alive. But it was slight enough that Ivar would never know he wore it. The rest of the warriors did the same. Thin mail, then their clothes, than their war mail overtop. Weapons in their sheaths or carried in their arms. Clear as day for the king and his men to see.

Prepared for war they boarded and headed toward the Ivar and whatever destiny Fate determined for them. As they sailed, Bjorn sang to praise the gods. Quickly the other warriors joined their voices to his. Harsh and unsteady they sang, until a few of the thralls lent their voices as well. The sound swelled as they all sang. Beauty and ugly, harsh and clear. All begging Odin's favor.

How could the gods possibly refuse? Bjorn knew the gods could only alter Fate so much, but if they were not destined to die, surely such worship would please them. Their cause was just, their belief pure, their arms strong, and their leader wise.

The gods would aid them.

As the song finished Bjorn looked to his brother, and for a moment his voice faltered. The thralls and huskarls all sang, all praised the gods. But not Fror, if anything he seemed to shrink into his own shadow with each mention of the gods.

Bjorn nudged his brother with his elbow and motioned for him to join them. Fror gave a thin smile but shook his head. His eyes returned to the city growing larger with every pull of the oar.

By midday the city spread before them. The homes that surrounded the docks dwarfed by the Gilded Hall, Harald's Hearth, the King's Home. The largest mead hall in all Daneland. The entirety of Giertvedt could fit within its walls twice over with room to spare. Real gold and silver gathered during Harald's conquest were fitted into the wooden posts giving the building a glorious shine even from a distance.

When he first saw the hall with his father, Geirmundr had taken him and Maeva aside and told them that even touching the gold would be punishable by death. And when Maeva scoffed, he warned her that if she got caught with anything he could not protect her. He would stand by and let Harald cut her up and do nothing. One of the few times Bjorn could remember Maeva was left speechless.

It seems Ivar kept the policy. As they landed and headed down the path to the hall, Bjorn saw two gargantuan spears, too thick and ornate for anyone to ever use in combat, jutting to the sky. A rope hanged between them, with the rotting hands of thieves waving in the breeze.

The farmers and townsmen worked beneath the spears ignoring the display of Ivar's strength. Most of the townsmen simply nodded toward Bjorn as he passed. He must have looked an imposing figure with his mail and Dane axe in his hand.

His brother did not get the same signal of respect. He rode hunched over, seeming to sink into himself as though he could will himself to disappear. Bjorn shook his head, "You need to sit upright, brother. No one can tell you're the jarl."

"They don't need to know." Fror was no coward, but by the gods he should at least carry himself with some dignity. Hold himself up with honor.

"You've won the loyalty of all your men. But remember what father would say, you still need-"

"Bjorn, I don't need to hear what father would say right now." Fror waved his hand dismissively toward Bjorn, then continued to eye the servant's entrance to the Hall. Thralls scurried in and out. No sign of Alif and Ulfr, which hopefully meant they were already in position.

"Good luck, Fror."

"Good luck, brother," he said as they reached the doors of Harald's Hall.

"Hail! Hail!" A heavyset thrall rushed toward them his arms raised high. His heavy jowls bouncing as he stepped before them. "Hail and who are you?"

"Jarl Fror of Giertvedt," Fror muttered as he stopped his horse.

"Jarl Fror the Shark-Eye." The huskarl Husfir shouted.

"Jarl Fror the Thrall-Friend." One of the women sang.

The thrall's arms lowered and his frown deepened. "Yes, we've heard of the Deceiver. What business do you have in our humble home?"

"King Ivar called for me to renew my vows. I have brought my brother and my closest huskarls to speak the Odin-oaths to Ivar's ring. And as compensation for any offense he feels I have brought to him a gift." He gestured to the thralls.

"You come to Ivar's halls with uncovered steel?" The fat man's nose twitched as he eyed the group.

"Bjorn," Fror commanded.

Bjorn walked toward the fat man his axe held tight in his hands. The fat man looked at him in confusion, then fear he advanced. He took a step back his eyes twitching back and forth between Bjorn's axe and his face. Bjorn stepped toward the thrall until their chests nearly touched. The man visibly shook as he looked at Bjorn's scowling face.

"The rivers are dangerous," Bjorn said. He flipped his axe over and handed the handle to the thrall with a smile. "Needed to arm ourselves."

The thrall's hand shook as he took the axe. Then Bjorn slid off the warmail he wore over his clothes and placed it in the man's arms. The huskarls formed a line behind Bjorn and passed their weapons to the thrall, until his arms overflowed with armor, axes, swords, and daggers. He nodded to the warriors, dropping several of the daggers in the process.

His eyes widened in fear, as he scrambled to try and pick them up.

"Here friend," Bjorn kneeled and scooped up the weapons. "Hold steady." He straightened the thrall and balanced the daggers atop the pile. "There, now keep those safe, right? We will want them back when we leave."

"Of course, master. Of course. Thank you." The man scurried off.

Bjorn turned to see Fror giving him a bemused look.

"What?"

"I didn't say anything."

"The man needed help."

Fror sighed and headed into the Hall. The rest of the huskarls and thralls followed him. Bjorn held back. He took a moment to look around, his eyes trailing back toward home and Helgi. He took a deep breath, and headed into the hall of the king.

The heavyset thrall stood toward the front of the hall, and placed their weapons neatly in a pile with a few others. Tucked in the back where they would be no use to anyone. Ivar's throne lay at the far side of the room, a large stone chair with jagged ridges, gold coins pressed into the sides. A small boy sat in the chair and laughed with a small girl trying to push him off.

A group of thralls and farmers filled the hall with noise and heat. Warriors stood at the sides or breaking up the farmers if they got too rowdy in their arguments.

"King Ivar!" the fat thrall appeared, the weapons no longer in his arms. "King Ivar! I present Fror Giermundrsson, Jarl of Giertvedt, Fror the Deceiver!"

The rabble of farmers and thralls parted, and a strong looking man stepped forward. His once dark hair had turned grey at his temples and speckled his short beard. The king of the Danes smiled.

"Jarl Fror! It has been long. You were barely a man when last I saw you with your father."

"My king," Fror nodded.

"And you brought your brother. Bjorn, wasn't it? I heard you had grown taller than even your father. Mighty looking, too. Giermundr must have been proud."

Bjorn nodded as well. "He was, my king. Before he was murdered."

The king's smile fell. "Nasty news. Cowardly and dishonorable. To think a cutthroat had the balls to do that to one of my jarls. Disgusting." Ivar turned his head to address the crowd. "My friends, I will need my hall cleared. Any business will be addressed tomorrow."

"But King Ivar," a small easterner at his side said with a thick accent. "My Emperor does not appreciate further delays. The glorious Shin Nihon only looks to the barbarians of the North for a-"

"Enough." For a moment the king's smile flickered. "We will continue tomorrow."

The king's guards stepped forward with menacing looks in their eyes. The diplomat from the east scurried around the people of Giertvedt, holding his nose high in disgust. The king walked to his throne, and picked up both the children. "It's time for you to leave, my loves."

"But father, we were playing!"

"Bodil is winning! I can't let her win!"

"Hush now, go find your mothers. Don't make me ask twice."

The children sighed. "Fine," the headed out the servant's entrance with a sullen amble.

"I love you," King Ivar called after them.

"Love you, too," the children muttered, though they still looked disappointed that their games were so forcibly concluded.

Only Ivar and his huskarls remained. The king sat on his throne adjusting himself into a comfortable slouch. His smile faded and his eyes narrowed. Finally, he looked like the man who killed King Harald and ruled the Danes with steel and blood.

Bjorn swallowed his fear. The king had ten huskarls to their five. But they weren't wearing armor their weapons were back in the pile with theirs. This will work.

"The sons of Giermundr are finally in my hall. Late." His finger tapped on the throne's armrest. "No mills to rebuild? No sicknesses keeping you from the road? No terrible disputes that require your complete attention?"

"We came to you as soon as we could, my king," Fror bowed his head. "You understand the troubles my home has had over the last few years. Poor harvests, sickness, and now the death of my father."

"I see you brought your brother, but where is the other? That child that Giermundr took under his roof, Maeva?"

"She died, my king. Lost on a hunt."

"Saddening. She was very willful and beautiful. I had hoped to make her my newest wife. Finally stop this nonsense between our halls." Ivar rose from his seat. "Fror, what am I to do with you?" He walked to Bjorn's brother and patted him on the shoulder. "When your father died, I gave you space. I didn't press the issue to have you come to my hall and give me your oath of loyalty. You had just lost a great man. It wouldn't be right, would it?"

"Frigga would've thought you cruel," one of Ivar's huskarls said.

"Exactly. The gods would see me as cruel. But I do not wish to be cruel. I'm not Harald the Black, who butchered those that spoke up against him, who took wives and children into his bed. So, I let you be. And how was my leniency repaid? You attacked my tribute collector. You burned down Alfhild's mill."

"My mill," Fror interrupted him. "My father's mill. And Alfhild burned it."

"Your father took that mill from Alfhild's home during the reign of Harald. I ordered your father to return it years back."

That couldn't possibly be true. They held that mill his entire life. Bjorn quickly glanced to his brother. Fror blinked, the rest of his expression as blank as it had been when they entered.

"Well, now the mill is destroyed. Alfhild said it was you, and of the two of you I'm inclined to trust one of my oldest allies. So, Giermundrssons, what could you possibly expect to come from entering my hall?"

"Gifts. Peace." Fror waved to the thralls. "You have received my grain, more barrels than even you asked for. But to further show our loyalty, I offer the finest thralls of Giertvedt. Each of them of age, each fit and handsome. The best we have."

King Ivar smiled. "Even in my halls, I've heard of your cunning. I wonder how true the whispers are. Word of my desires have trickled down to your farm. You know I lost my third wife recently, and I always had an eye for beautiful women. You think seeing this beauty would distract me."

"No, not distract, my king." Fror said.

"It's no great cunning to give a man what he wants," Bjorn stepped forward with a smile. "This conflict between us has cost our house too much already. We just want peace."

"Peace. Hah." King Ivar looked over the thralls, searching for something. "You, there, the one with the flower. Come here." The king pointed toward one of the women.

Bjorn turned to look to where he pointed. Skula's girl, Edla, had one dropping half-dead flower behind her ear. She looked terrified, but stepped forward. The king held out his hand for the girl, and lead her to his throne.

Ivar sat, and tugged Edla onto his lap. "Ahh, very nice."

Fror cleared his throat. "My king-"

"Don't interrupt me appreciating your gift." Ivar rubbed Edla's arm. The poor women visibly shook. "I want to know why you did this. All of this."

Fror looked at Ivar in confusion. Bjorn quickly glanced to the servant's entrance. Ulfr and Alif weren't there. Where were they? Were they discovered? This is wrong.

"I do not know what you mean, my king."

"Do you not?" Ivar smiled at the girl in his lap touching the flower. "You're Edla, aren't you?"

"Yes," she whispered. Bjorn's stomach sank, why did he know her? What the fuck was going on?

"Edla with the flower in your hair. Tell me about Jarl Fror. Is he a good jarl?"

Her quivering stopped as her eyes hardened. She looked between Fror and the king. "No, he took me from my home. He is starving my family."

"Of course, he isn't a good jarl." King Ivar sneered. "He plotted against his king."

Bjorn heard the door to the hall opened, his head twisted to see several armed and armored warriors enter. Dead. They were all dead.

"Edla with the flower. Edla who sent me such an interesting message. How are these men plotting to kill me?"

Edla reached under her skirt and pulled out the dagger tied to her leg. "They all have something, a weapon under their skirts."

"Fucking slave bitch!" One of the huskarls screamed and rushed at the king. Ivar snatched the knife from Edla's hand and threw it. The knife struck him in his eye. The huskarl fell to the ground, clutching the handle of the knife as blood ran down his fingers.

"Kill them all," Ivar commanded his warriors. "I want their heads!"

The warriors ran forward and started hacking at the women. They screamed and fell over themselves as they tried to scramble away from their deaths. Some few who kept their wits about them grabbed their hidden weapons. More rushed past Bjorn, elbows and shoulders slamming into him as he tried in vain to steady himself for the fight.

"No!" Edla screamed. "No, you only need to kill Fror. His huskarls if they fight. The thralls had no choice! Please! Mercy!"

"Die!" screamed one of Ivar's huskarls as a sword swept past Bjorn's head. Bjorn ducked down and tried to grab at the man's arm, only for someone to step onto his back leg and send him sprawling to the ground.

He felt his cloths tear as the sword sliced into his exposed back, only stopping when it struck the hidden mail. Bjorn twisted and kicked out the warrior's leg as he pushed himself to his feet. The huskarl landed with a curse and struggled to get up. Bjorn kicked him in the nose and watched as the man's head snapped back with a satisfying thunk.

"Bjorn!" one of the thralls screamed. Matti, scrambled toward him holding his axe. She had lived with them since she was a child. She worked in the kitchen. She used to sneak him sweets and fruits when he asked. Now one of her eyes hung on sinews as it bounced against her cheek and splattered blood.

Through the tangled mass of thralls and warriors, Matti pushed forward and placed the axe in his hands. "Save us."

Bjorn nodded. How could he possibly do that? He turned to see the huskarl with the now broken nose struggling to stand. Bjorn's axe swung down and imbedded itself in the man's face. He felt the hot blood splash into his eyes as he wiped it away and looked at the battle.

The women had started to form some vague line as they waved their weapons wildly at the oncoming warriors. Fror had gotten ahold of a small axe and swung it at three of Ivar's men, moving to keep them all in front of him. But one the king's warriors circled around behind him, a spear point toward the back of his brother's head.

Bjorn charged, and grabbed the man before he had a chance to strike. He continued to run forward knocking aside another warrior as he slammed the man's face into the wall. The man thrashed as he tried to right himself. Bjorn stomped on the man's back, he heard the bones snap as the man screamed and his legs went limp.

"Bjorn!" Fror shouted.

He turned and felt the swish of air move past his face as an axe missed him. The man behind the axe growled and swung again, this time Bjorn knocked aside the blow with the haft of his axe. Not good, the thin mail he had hidden beneath his clothes wouldn't stop an axe or mace. He needed to get out of here. They needed to get out.

Bjorn blocked another attack, and used the momentum to swing his elbow into the man's jaw. He staggered back, giving Bjorn just enough time to bolt.

The warriors came from the rear of the hall. Maybe he could grab Fror and barrel through the crowd into the servant's entrance. Maybe they could escape.

Where was Fror? He searched through the mass of bodies. He couldn't leave without him. He would not be the last of his family.

Before him two of the women held weapons with shaking arms as they tried in desperation to parry a berserkr that laughed as foam and saliva dripped from his mouth. His bearded axe hooked below one of their blades and yanked it aside. The sword clanked as it hit the floor of the hall. The thralls screamed and tried to grab at the axe. The berserkr batted away their hands and raised his weapon high.

The butt of Bjorn's axe smashed into the man's temple. The berserkr stumbled to the side.

"The servant hall!" Bjron screamed at the thralls. "Run!"

"Thank you," one of the women grabbed the other's hand and yanked her toward the side entrance.

The berkerkr steadied himself, and tapped the side of his head. His fingers came back with blood. The berserk licked his fingers and smiled. He picked his weapon back up and smashed it against his shield. His feet stomped in rhythm and he began to bite his shield. The muscles of his neck and arms tensed, undulating under his skin.

The call to Odin. Bjorn had seen Rokr perform the rite a handful of times. Each time, Rokr had taken a dozen men to calm him down as he tried to kill everyone in front of him.

Bjorn took his stance and gripped the handle of his axe hard enough to turn his knuckles white. "Come on then, you half-mad fuck!"

The berserkr lunged forward, his weapon descending in a deadly arc. Bjorn batted the blade aside and tried to use the momentum to swing his longaxe into his enemy. Only for the berserkr's shield to catch it with ease.

The axe came toward his head. Bjorn stepped out of the way, knocking against someone else engaged in their own fight. His footing faltered. The berserkr lunge, giving Bjorn no time to steady himself. The axe took him in the shoulder, he heard his clothing rip then the metal rings of his mail shirt pop. The berserkr pulled his weapon free, blood flew into the air. Pain shot through his arm.

"Agghhh!" Bjorn's arm went limp at his side. _I can't use a damn longaxe with one fucking arm! I need help. I need to think of something. Some way to get advantage over this whoreson. Fuck this hurts. _

Bjorn choked up on his axe with his one good arm. The berserkr stepped forward with that lunatic smile on his face as the foam dripped down his chin into his short beard. _He thinks he already won. He's toying with me. _

Bjorn stepped back toward the wall. The berserkr charged again his weapon coming low. Bjorn stepped out of the way, moving closer to his target. The berserkr struck again, and once more Bjorn dodged away, carefully keeping his weapon between him and his opponent. The berserkr's smile faded as Bjorn stepped aside from another of his attacks.

"Come, face the gods with dignity." The brute sputtered through his own saliva. "Come!" Another strike and Bjorn's back foot touched the wall. He took a deep breath and waited for the next attack. The berserkr slashed his axe toward Bjorn's head. Perfect.

Bjorn dropped to the ground, the axe soared above his head and with a loud thunk embedded itself in the wood. The berserkr's already bulging eyes grew larger, on the verge of popping out of the man's skull. He yanked at the axe, but the blade only shook in the wood.

Bjorn raised his leg to his chin, aimed, and kicked the man's knee. He felt the bones snap as the leg bent back form the force. The berserkr fell to the ground, his leg jutting out at an unnatural angle.

"Die!" the berserkr screamed. "Die! Die! Die!" his fingers dug into the ground as he pulled himself toward Bjorn. Bjorn kicked the man once more in the face then got to his feet. The berserkr continued to crawl at him. It screamed, slobbered, and raised his hands toward Bjorn as though it could choke him through rage alone.

Bjorn rolled to his feet and ran, leaving his enemy crawling on the floor driven by his rage and madness.

"Fror!" he screamed over the clanging of weapons and the screams of people. Pools of blood ran from the corpses on the ground. He tried not to look at the faces of those he had known since he was a child. He raised his axe high and screamed again "Fror!"

"Bjorn!" his brother called. He stood by the servant's entrance. His face covered in blood. He waved for Bjorn to come. That was the way out, he just needed to make it to Fror. They could escape together. They would both survive.

Bjorn took a tired step toward his brother, only for strong fingers to dig into his ankle.

"Die!" came a voice below him as the hand pulled his leg out from under him. Bjorn's head slammed into the ground and his eyes clouded. Something pulled on his leg and plopped onto his hips. Bjorn tried to look at the thing, only to see a big brown blur crawling up his body.

It screamed at him.

Bjorn blinked and held up his hands trying to push the blob away from him. What did it want? What is going on?

The thing screamed again. "Die!"

The thing grabbed at Bjorn's throat. Bjorn grabbed at its arms. The lessons his father drilled into him pushed him forward. He rolled the arm over his and twisted it until he heard it pop.

"Die! Die! Die!" The berserker's arm flopped to the side as Bjorn let it go and grabbed at the thing's throat.

He rolled over and pulled the man's broken body over his. His arms wrapped around the man's throat.

"Die! Die!" it continued to squeal. It's voice rising higher and higher as Bjorn added more pressure onto its throat.

"Die," it gave one last whisper as Bjorn pulled its head to the side. The bones burst in his grasp and the berserk went limp.

Bjorn threw the corpse off him and took a deep breath. His head stung. He flopped to his stomach and pushed himself up with shaking arms.

"Don't think so, Bjorn," a familiar voice sneered. Bjorn felt a heavy boot press onto his back and pushed him to the ground. "Fror ran. Mitgis and Jumper find him. He couldn't have gone far."

Bjorn heard a high whistle. "You see what he did to Gripper?"

"Of course, I see," King Ivar sighed. "I had hoped more from a berserker."

"Giermundrsson, have you been named?"

Bjorn groaned.

"Didn't think so, well, my king? We can't just keep calling him Giermundrsson after that."

"Really, Harrim?"

"The boy's earned it. He fought well. We should at least give him his due honors before we kill him."

"Fine. Bjorn the Breaker. Fight's over. Your brother fled, I'm still alive. You lost. Harrim, take his axe. We're taking him below."

Another foot stepped on Bjorn's hand and ground on his fingers. Bjorn's fingers instinctively opened.

"Thank you kindly," Harrim reached down and grabbed the axe. A second later he heard his weapon clang against the floor a distance away. "Fucking pity, Breaker, you have skill and everyone says your brother's got a brain. You could've gone far." Bjorn felt the boot on his back left off, before a hand on the scruff of his neck replaced it and dragged him to his feet.

Bodies lay twisted on the ground. Above them, Edla stood, cradling one of the dead thrall women. Her body shook as she cried.

"I don't get it, Breaker. You could have waited for the next war shown your metal and gotten honors and riches. Instead you did this shit." Harrim half dragged Bjorn away.

"My father," Bjorn groaned. "Ivar killed him. He sent an assassin. We had to."

A loud laugh rang through Bjorn's pain-racked skull.

"That's what caused all this madness? You think I killed Giermundr? He kept that lunatic Alfhild in check. He always paid his geld. We may have hated each other, and he talked more shit than the rest of my kingdom combines. But he wasn't making a nuisance of himself."

"What?" Bjorn tried to lift his head to look at Ivar.

The king grabbed him under the chin and lifted until their eyes met. Bjorn could smell his sweat and see the intensity in his gaze. "You aren't the clever one, so I'll make this simple. I didn't kill your father."


	7. Mission 6: Alone

"Well, you gonna cry, girl?" The man towered over her, the blood of her father still splattered over his face. Behind him she could see the corpses of battle piled high. Armored raiders roamed over the lands taking what they could and killing those that got in their way.

The small girl sniffled but held back the tears that formed in the corners of her eyes. The dirk shook in her hand as she pointed it toward the man. "No," she whispered.

"What's that?" the man leered.

"No!" the girl screamed and lunged forward dagger aimed at the man's stomach.

The big man laughed and stepped aside. The child stumble forward and fell. "You ain't gonna do shit that way. Keep your body balanced. Running forward like that just makes it easier for me to see what you're doing."

The girl got to her feet, her scratched knees dribbled blood that ran down her legs. She took a quick step forward the dirk once more aimed at her tormentor.

"Better!" he laughed as he dodged the blow again. "This time, shift your weight with the thrust. But remember to keep your feet about you."

The girl shut her eyes and screamed. She thrust forward with the blade and felt it connect with something. She did it. She'd killed him! A smile tugged at her lip and her eyes opened wide.

The man laughed and held up his thick arm. A thin line of blood where her weapon nicked him. "Well done, little one. Well done." The man's bleeding arm darted forward and plucked the dagger from her hands.

The girl looked at her empty hand. She failed, she failed father, she failed everyone. She slumped to her knees and felt the dirt stick to her scratches. Now she'd be killed. That was the way of things, wasn't it? How had father died? He'd looked his killer in the eyes. He'd not cried or screamed. He had been brave.

She would be brave, too.

She peaked up at the huge man, who flipped her dirk around, testing the weight. "Good steel in this one."

"I'm ready," she said, and lifted her head so the man had a shot at her throat. Better to be over quick, while she still had her courage about her. Please, gods, let it be painless.

"Ready for what?"

"To die."

The big man laughed. "You have more stones than my sons. How old are you, girl?"

"I've had five winters." Why was he asking this? _Stop wasting time, I don't want to cry. I don't want him to see me cry._

"Fuckin' five. And what's your name?"

"Maeva."

"Well Maeva, I'm not going to kill you. And you won't be a slave neither. I'm taking you home." The man grabbed Maeva and pulled her into an embrace, her head resting on his shoulder. "My name is Giermundr. I'll be taking care of you." The big man gently rocked her, and in his embrace she let her tears flow. The big man didn't seem to notice as he carried her away. But the embrace tightened.

And tightened.

Thick fingers wrapped around her neck and squeezed. She tried to wretch her body to face Giermundr, only now his hair had turned grey and his eyes grew wild with drunken lust.

_No! No!_ She struggled and pushed. Thrashing her body trying to knock the ghost off her.

Her eyes opened, and Giermundr disappeared. In his stead a young man, with a clearly broken nose that had not been treated. His eyes grew wild as he tried to force his weight down on her. He shoved her face down toward the rising waves.

The water rushed into her nose and mouth. As she thrashed about as the liquid entered her lungs. She swung her arm out at her attacker, hitting him weakly in what felt like the shoulder.

That wouldn't work. She needed to remain calm, like Giermundr taught her. She grabbed the man's hands and held them close to her. She planted her foot in the sand and pushed while rotating her torso.

The man rolled with her, his shoulder hitting the sand and his grip releasing. Maeva pushed herself to her feet. As she stepped forward her leg gave out sending her screaming to her knee. A deep gash ran down her thigh and into her calf, the blood only stopped by the seaweed and wet sand that clogged sections of the cut.

The man struggled to his feet, his back still turned toward her. He needed to die, and she had no weapons. She tried once more to stand, her leg shook as she tried to put her weight on it.

The man turned to her, breathing deep. His face familiar. Her new thrall, the young man she captured in the first town she raided.

"Well, come on then you fucker!" she howled. "I'll break your neck like I broke your nose."

The man nodded. "No," he spoke slowly in the Norse tongue, as though testing out the words for the first time. "Die. You."

Really, that's the best he could come up with? Maeva tested another step forward but the pain shot through her leg. No stable base. Any attack she threw would need to end her opponent or she'd be on the ground herself.

Fortunately, her opponent looked no better. She had ordered the thralls be half-starved so they would be too weak to fight back. And this one clearly didn't have her training. She could win, she just needed to keep her wits about her.

Maeva breathed deep through her nose, like Giermundr taught her, and glared at the man. "Alright, you broken-nosed pig-faced Christian weakling. I'm ready."

The man scrunched up his face as he tried to unwrap her words in his mind. Then he shrugged and charged at her. His arms spread wide as he tried to tackle her to the ground.

Shit! Maeva lashed out with her fist as he drew close, her fist scrapping across his temple, but his momentum carried him forward. His shoulder hit her in the stomach, and her breath forced itself out her lungs. Her chest heaved from the impact as he back slammed into the sand.

Maeva gasped as her lungs failed to fill with air. The man's fist hit her in the cheek and her vision blurred. She thrust her hands at the blob of colors that must be the man's head. Her fingers hooked behind his neck and pulled him down. Smashing his already busted nose into the top of her head.

She felt his hot blood on her forehead, but the man didn't let go. He clung to Maeva and tried to crush her. Strong, but no one taught him how to fight.

Maeva slammed her fist into the side of his neck. He flinched, just long enough for Maeva to reposition herself and headbutt the man in the nose once more.

That one did it. The man let go, the pressure on her ribs relieved she took a strong breath for air. Her lungs still burned, her body still ached. But the man stumbled away from her, his body swaying like a drunk. Drops of his blood marked his path as easily as footprints in the sand.

She laughed and rest her head back down on the beach. She won, she still lived. Now, she'd only need to find where she was.

She remembered the storm. The violent walls of water that slammed into her ship and swept her people away. Fucking Halfdanr had been knocked overboard. She'd gotten up, exposing herself as she pulled him back on the ship. Someone shouted at her.

Then only water. She tried to find her ship, and the waves splashed into her eyes. She screamed, and the water filled her throat and nose. Then, nothing.

She must have washed ashore. The fates spared her, perhaps they spared others. Other Danes, of course, not more thralls to fight. She'd find them, they must be along the beach.

She laid in the sand until some semblance of her strength returned. Then she made her way to the sea. She sucked air through clenched teeth as she crawled through wet sand while avoiding putting any pressure on her leg.

She gently laid her leg in the cold water and let the sea run over her wound, dislodging the dirt and sand that clumped in the red flesh. Dark thoughts entered her mind as she waited as the gentle rise and fall of the water wiped the wound clean.

_What if I'm stuck here. I won't be able to help Bjorn and Fror. Her ships would be placed under the command of Rokr! He'd get them all killed. _Maeva scooped a handful of water to clear the last specs of sand manually, before sliding away from the sea.

The wound cleaned, Maeva poked at it. The leg seared, and blood welled up where she touched, but it didn't flow. "Thank you," she whispered to the sea. Long, but not too deep, the wound would heal with time. Would leave one nasty scar though.

Maeva pushed herself up the beach. Her stomach growled, but she couldn't deal with that yet. She let her wound and her clothes dry in the Sun.

_What if the Christians find me? The others had to have continued sailing. They had no choice with the storm and the fleet that chased them. What then? They would not take me alive. _

When her pants had mostly dried, she touched her wound and winced. It still hurt, but the bleeding stopped. Maeva tore the shredded mess of her pant leg and wrapped the cloth tight around her wound. She wouldn't be able to run or bend her knee particularly far. Not nearly as neat as old Freyrdi had always managed to make her bindings. But it would work.

She stood, applying weight to her leg. It still stung like a dirk stabbing her every step. But she could move without falling. She limped along the beach, searching for signs of life. For miles she dragged her wounded leg through the sand, and she found nothing but broken pieces of wood.

Her stomach rumbled. Just a little longer, then she'd have to find something to eat. Visions of the feasts celebrating Hjol danced through her head as she carried forward. Her mouth watered at the thoughts of roasted pork and sweet mead.

A lump in the distance pulled her out of the memories. A man lay on the shore, the waves rushing up to his knees. A Dane, by the looks of him! Maeva lurched forward as fast as her wounded leg allowed. She wouldn't be alone. She'd gather her men and make her way home.

She stopped as she got close, and she felt her empty stomach heave. Erik Redhorn lay on the ground, his face pale and eyes staring forward. The back of his head was split open and his brains half washed away. Insects and crabs scuttled into his empty skull and eyes tearing pieces of whatever remained to eat.

Maeva sunk to her knees. Erik had fought beside her on every raid. A respected name she'd known since her childhood. He should have died in some glorious battle and given a day of celebration for his passing into the arms of the gods. Not this.

She reached out and closed his eyes, so she didn't have to see the bugs feasting on them. Erik would not stay here to be eaten. Maeva struggled to her feet, she'd build him a pyre and say the prayers to the gods herself.

She limped out of the beach and toward the trees. Her leg ached as she bent along the ground and picked through the wood, most still soaked from the storm. She dragged the pieces to the beach and built a sloppy, uneven pyre.

The wood shifted as she dragged Erik's corpse up the pyre. One of the pieces snapped and the logs rolled apart. Unbalanced, Maeva toppled to the ground. "Fuck!" she screamed as she felt a fresh burst of hot blood stream from her cut. Maeva clutched at her wound trying to hold into the red blood that seeped through her fingers.

She looked to Erik's corpse slumped half off the pyre.

"You going to cry, girl?" the familiar voice whispered.

Maeva took a rugged breath and crawled over to a tree and pulled herself up with her red stained hands. The rough bark pressed into her skin as she leaned her weight onto the branch.

"I'm sorry," Maeva said to the corpse. "You deserve better than this."

She eased pressure onto her wounded leg. "I remember when I first saw you. Giermundr called his warriors to feast. He was remarrying, Relsi I think it was. She didn't last too long."

Maeva flexed her leg, winced, and let go of the tree. Her leg trembled, but it held strong. "I'd heard of you before. The Redhorn, who blew a warning of the invading Geats. You held your hill alone against them, until the whole Dane army came to defeat them."

She reached over to Erik's shoulder and shoved. His head rolled, and insects scattered from his opened skull and crawled across his body and up her arms. Maeva gnashed her teeth as she continued to push, until Erik Redhorn lay sprawled across the logs. She let go and brushed aside the insects biting at her arm.

"You were everything I thought a warrior should be. Tall and fierce and strong. I watched you perform both the axe and spear dance. And when I asked you about your battles, you answered everything. I must have been so annoying."

Maeva set about starting the fire. "I'm sorry. You deserved more than this." She stood up as the kindling began to light. She should say something. Bjorn would have said something, something heartfelt, something that would stir hardened men to tears. Even Fror would say the correct thing. But Erik was stuck with her.

She took a deep breath and shouted. "Odin, hear me. Here lies Erik Redhorn! He was an old man," True enough. But he was more than that. He did more than that. "He was a good man. He was wise in the way of war and poetry. He stood alone at Mirkhill. He joined our viking, the first to step with me against the Christians. He slew many and fought with valor."

The fire moved like a wave around the pyre and slowly engulfed the old warrior.

"This funeral is small, but he deserved one as large as any jarl." The flames licked the side of his face, his hair and beard burst and shriveled. "He was my friend. Please." Please what? She couldn't just leave it at that. "Please, place him by your side."

Maeva sat and watched the flames, and through the rising smoke she thought she saw the Valkyries taking Erik with them.

* * *

The loud grumble of her stomach woke Maeva. She opened heavy eyes, for a moment hoping that the Giertvedt would greet her. Instead she saw trees, dirt, and a burnt pyre. _Well, looks like I'm still stuck here_.

Her empty stomach groaned once more. "Fine, I'm going." She pushed herself to her feet, her wounded leg wobbling as she tried to walk through the forest. She wandered, hoping to find some sort of fruit hanging from the trees.

She found nothing but grass and a few leaves that still clung to the trees. _It's too fucking close to winter_, Maeva stopped and rested against a tree. Her leg ached, and a small line of fresh blood rolled down her calf. Alright, no fruit. Meat then, I'll need to hunt.

She looked down at her leg. No hunting. Fishing? I can do that.

Her stomach groaned again. "I know!" she shouted at her stomach. "I'm trying!"

Maeva pushed herself off the tree and winced. She took a steadying breath and began her search. It did not take her long to find a long thin branch on a tree. She twisted and pulled it off, then gave it a few quick whips to test the flexibility. A small bush nearby had thorns. Maeva pushed on it with her thumb, and the thorn bent back and snapped. Too weak. Maeva trudged deeper into the forest looking for something else.

A loud crash and a shout seared the air. Maeva whirled toward the noise and sank into a fighting stance. Another scream echoed through the forest. Close.

Maeva rushed toward the sound, her bad leg dragged behind her. Maybe one of her men made it. They needed her help. The screams of rage and pain mixed with a bestial grunting. As she drew closer trees and bushes trembled as two dark shapes thrashed just out of her eyesight.

She pushed through underbrush. The thin needles press against her arms and legs, scrapping along the side of her wound. She burst through the woodwork to a small clearing as a final loud grunt filled her ears.

A great black boar with blood dripping from its tusks charged past her. A wooden stake jutted from its shoulder. A man jumped out of its way and into some bushes out of her sight. The boar thrashed its head as it ran past the bush. It pounded its thick back legs down and turned back toward the bush.

"Oy! Over here! This way!" she screamed and threw a broken branch at the animal. The boar took notice of her, its beady eyes sized her up. It thrashed its head, snorted, and charged.

"Shit!" Maeva jumped aside and landed hard on the ground. A wave of pain jolted through her wounded leg. The boar brushed past her side, its foul breath filled her nose and mouth. She reached out to grab at the stake. The beast twisted its head, slamming his snout into her side.

The force sent her spiraling. She landed face down in the mud. She pulled her face out of the muck. Only to feel the weight of the beast press against her back, holding her in place. Mud filled her mouth. _This is how I'm going to die? Pressed to death by a fucking pig_?

The weight lifted off her back. Maeva thrust her head up and spat out the dirt. She coughed and drew a deep breath. She flipped herself over and saw someone grabbing at the boar's neck. It screeched and shook. Its hind legs kicked at the man holding it.

The man yelled at her in a language she didn't understand. She saw his face, young, familiar, and with a very broken nose.

Her former thrall screamed at her again. The boar nearly wretched out of his bloody fingers.

Maeva stumbled to her feet and lurched forward. She clutched at the stake and ripped it from its flesh. The beast roared, and Maeva slammed the makeshift weapon down toward its throat. The animal thrashed and twisted rubbing the tip of its tusk along Maeva's arm, leaving a long red streak down her arm.

"Die, fucker!" Maeva pulled the chunk of wood, causing the boar's skin to stretch until it tore. She struck at the throat again. Hot blood splashed into her eyes and nose

The boar's roar turned into a shrill screech. It bolted, twisting as it dragged Maeva and the Christian forward. Maeva wrapped her arm around the boar's neck and clutched at the fur.

Her fingers slipped on the fur, wet with blood. She dropped into the mud. The boar tried to stomp onto her, but the Christian yanked the beast back. Only a sharpened hoof pinched at her arm.

She howled and stabbed with the stake unable to see what part of the boar she struck. The beast screeched, stepping off her. She stabbed again. Her voice mingling with the sounds of the dying boar. The pig's struggles slowed, and it slumped into the mud beside Maeva. Slowly its screech softened, until it was little more than a high-pitched breath.

Maeva pulled herself on top of the animal and bellowed into its unblinking eye. She slammed down with what remained of the chunk of wood. It pierced eye, skull, and brain. The beast made one last shutter then went still.

She roared at the sky. "Witness me, Tyr. See that I am strong. Not even the beasts can defeat me!"

The Christian wiped blood from his face. His eyes affixed to her. He slowly stood up his hands held out, palms open to her. Quietly he said something in his harsh language.

"I can't understand you, fool."

The Christian shook his head and said something as he pointed to his ear.

"Why are you still talking?" Maeva stood up. "I can't-"

Her leg buckled beneath her and she sprawled on the ground. She clutched at her leg, her hands slipped on the seeping blood. Her bandage had been torn apart. "Shit!"

The Christian walked toward her.

Maeva held out her hand. "Stay back! I can still rip your fucking throat out. Even like this." The Christian stopped, and took off his shirt.

He grabbed the edge and tore it into a long strip. He said something in his weird language and began to slowly wrap the cloth around her leg.

Maeva lowered her arm. "You're a fool. If I knew it was you, I wouldn't have saved you." The man kept his work. Tying together the wrapping the man nodded to her and stood up.

He pointed to his chest, "Will."

Maeva's legs shook as she stood. Her hand clutched at the stake. She could kill him, right now. It'd be the safest move. No way for the man to change his mind later.

"Maeva," she dropped the wood. This would bite her in the ass. He'd either get her killed or try to force himself on her. Fuck this is stupid.

The man smiled. "May-veh." He pointed to the boar carcass and patted his stomach. He took the wooden stake and tried to cut away at the skin and making an awful mess of it. The skin tore unevenly as he tried to yank it form the boar.

"No," Maeva winced as she carefully maneuvered her leg so she could squat down by the Christian. "Don't pull it out, you glide the knife under."

The Christian just nodded at her and continued to try and yank at the skin.

Maeva swatted the Christian's hand away from the pig. "Give it to me." She held her hand out. The man looked at he and pulled his hand back. She shook her open hand in front him. It took the fool a few moments, but he handed the wood over. "This is how you flay a boar," she scrapped the flesh and rolled the bloody skin as she went. "Now, go get firewood. I'm not eating raw pork."

The Christian stared as she worked, nodding repeatedly.

"Go find firewood."

He nodded again.

"No. You." Maeva grabbed him. "You. Go find. Firewood." She pointed to the trees. The man looked confused.

"You. Fuckwit. Go find. Firewood!" She pointed at the chunk of wood and the forest around them. "For fire!" She held out her hand palm up and spread her fingers to try and show fire.

The spark of realization reached his eyes. He nodded and walked away into the trees. With him gone, Maeva silently went to work. The chunk of wood made a terrible flaying knife. The fur clung to the body, and the chunk of wood bit into her fingers.

By the time the Christian started a fire she finished skinning the hog. The two skewered the animal and roasted the meat. Maeva's stomach growled as their meal cooked. The Christian hovered over the fire, quietly muttering to himself as he rotated the boar. He poked at the flesh, testing the heat and how quickly the animal cooked.

Finally, he nodded in satisfaction, and took the pig from the fire. They ate the animal in silence. Maeva had never tasted anything half as savory.

"Thank you," she said.

Will looked up from his meal. He gave a thin lipped smile and went back to eating.

* * *

"Safe," Will said, and took her hand. "We safe."

In the weeks since they killed the boar together, Will learned some few words of Dane. He sounded like a halfwit most of the time.

"Trust," Maeva said in his German. Likely sounding just as foolish.

They watched in silence as the oncoming ship move closer. The giant Christian Cross emblazoned on the sails. The movement of what looked to be a hundred enemies about the deck.

How could she trust him? They were going on the enemy ship. She'd be dragged through chains and used like a thrall. Will couldn't protect her, even if he wanted. She was going to her death.

Will gently squeezed her hand. "I safe us. Rest."

Rest? Maeva tried to piece together what Wat meant. She gave him a confused look.

Will held up his arm and demonstrated taking a large breath. "Rest."

"Ahh, calm." _Like I could be calm with the enemy about to take me. I should run. They can pick up Will and leave me to the island._ She scratched at her leg through her dirtied bandages. Three days earlier Will had torn up the last of his shirt to give her fresh bandages.

She'd need more in a few days. Her leg was still too weak. If she ran she would fall. If she stayed on her feet she wouldn't be able to last. She'd die alone in the forest as the winter came to the southern lands.

The ships glided on the waves, until they could get no further without damaging the massive hulls. Rowboats filled with sailors descended on winches down the side of the ship. A massive man with a large white mustache stood in front of the closest boat. As the ship hit the beach the man stepped off the boat using an axe nearly as large as he was with a spear head as a walking stick.

He looked between the two of them as the sailors behind him pulled the boat further ashore. He said something in German, too fast for Maeva to catch. Will replied just as quick, the only words Maeva understood was when he said his name.

The large man's eyes narrowed. He gave a short command, and Will fell to his knees.

Maeva met the man's eyes. He frowned and stepped closer. By the gods, she barely made it to his chest. The man said something to her, but she continued to stare him down. Beside her Will yanked at her arm.

"Down," he said. "Knight."

They wanted her to grovel, like a thrall. No. Giermundr would have died before he groveled, she would do the same.

Will's voice furiously rang out and he gestured to her wounded leg. The big man gave a single word and Will silenced. He drew close to Maeva, his eyes searching her face. Slowly his lips curled into a deep frown.

"You Dane?" the knight said in her native tongue.

Maeva's eyes widened in surprise. "Yes."

"You viking or thrall?"

That was it, Will had lied to keep her safe. Tell them she was a thrall and she wouldn't be put in chains. He was a good man, but likely only got himself killed alongside her. "You already know."

"I do, the boys a bad liar. And I've heard the rumors of the woman the Vikings had on their raid. A redhaired demoness that fought with the strength of ten men. You, I presume."

Maeva nodded. "I am Maeva of Giertvedt. I led the raid to your shores."

"And the boy?"

"A Christian, like you. We needed each other to survive the island. I saved his life, I think he's trying to save mine."

"Hmm," the knight said something in German. Several sailors ran to her side and grabbed her arms. Beside her Will shouted something at the knight. But the giant silenced him with only a look.

She wanted to struggle, to fight and scream. But as the hands forced her to the ground she felt the strength leave her. She'd face her death with honor.

"Maeva of Giertvedt," the huge knight spoke with his thick southern accent. "You have led men to our lands to kill, rape, and plunder. You brought violence to our shores. You desecrated our relics and stole from our churches."

"Quit jabbering on and do it already. You old sot."

The knight glared at her and set his jaw. His foot lashed out and hit her in the stomach. Maeva felt her breath rush from her longs and she slumped into the sand. Coughing and clutching at her stomach, she struggled to meet the knight's eyes once more.

"You deserve much worse than that, Maeva of Giertvedt. But I am not going to kill you. You just started a war, and you will be more useful to me alive." The knight looked to his crew and spoke to them in German. The men bound her hands and legs.

"No!" Will reached out to her, but the knight shoved him back as easily as he would have shoved a child. "Safe. I keep safe!"

Maeva shut her eyes as the Christians dragged her up and tossed her into the boat. _They'll get no use out of me, she promised herself. I won't let them. I won't betray my brothers. I won't._


	8. Mission 7: Agreements

Fror laid atop a small hill overlooking the road into Harald's Hall, the last of his warriors by his side. So far none of Ivar's warriors had come close to them. Probably still searching the town for some last trace of him.

It had all gone to Hela. How did this shit get so bad? His brother captured, left behind in the hands of Ivar!

No, Bjorn wasn't just left behind. He needed to face what he'd done. Ivar would have killed him by now. Everything had gone to shit! He'd ruined everything. He should have accepted his punishment and death for what he'd done. Then at least Bjorn would be alive. Maeva would be safe.

Had there ever been a more useless jarl? He had been holding in his rage for months, now one outburst of anger and he'd doomed everything. He'd lead his family to ruin. He'd freed most of his thralls. And even if he hadn't without the mill Giertvedt wouldn't last through the winter.

Useless. Stupid. Giermundr was right about him. He'd failed everything.

"Fror," Ulfr whispered beside him. "What are we doing here?"

The jarl glared at his huskarl, searching for something to say. Something to shame him. He was the one that grabbed him and dragged him out of the Hall. Fror screamed to let him go. To go back and save Bjorn. But they didn't obey him and now Bjorn was dead.

"Hush," Alif said. "Let him think."

Fror turned back toward the road and let out a breath. He couldn't let his anger get the best of him, again. He should be grateful to the pair. They saved him. Without their aid he'd just be dead as well.

He couldn't place the blame on anyone else's feet. All of it was his fault.

"Ivar will be gathering a force to raid Giertvedt," Fror looked back at the Gilded Hall, still gleaming in the sunlight. "Alif, Ulfr, I want you to ride back to Giertvedt."

"And organize our defenses?" Ulfr smiled and rubbed his finger across his axe's edge.

Fror shook his head. "That would only get everyone killed. You will tell everyone to abandon Giertvedt."

"What?" Ulfr's voice rose.

"You will tell everyone to grab what they can and leave. Save themselves before the army gets there."

"No," Ulfr snarled. "That's our home. That's where Giermundr made me his huskarl. You can't ask everyone to abandon their home."

"I'm not asking," Fror turned his eyes to Ulfr.

"It's cowardly! We can fortify. We can use the thralls again!"

"Listen fool. There is no way to beat Ivar that way. You will just get everyone killed."

"Then we will die with glory!"

"My jarl," Alif said. "Please reconsider. There has to be something else we can do."

"There is nothing else. You two will go to Giertvedt, and you will see to its evacuation. Now, get out of here. You're wasting time."

"Wait. What are you going to do?"

What was he going to do? He didn't have a strict plan. Sneak in and try to kill Ivar in his sleep? Delay his army somehow, maybe slaughter their horses and sink their ships? Whatever it was, he couldn't go back to Giertvedt. He couldn't face the hall he'd emptied. The people he'd lead to their deaths.

"It'd take too long to explain. Go."

Alif grasped Fror's arm, "This is not over. We will meet again and kill this bastard."

Unlikely. "Go." Fror released Alif and the man rushed down the hill to catch Ulfr. Fror watched them as they headed away from the road. If they were lucky they could steal some horses in a nearby village. If they were unlucky. Well, then they'd be killed and the people of Giertvedt were doomed.

Fror watched over the road. Hoping for some inspiration to come to him. He hid for hours, quietly playing over his numerous mistakes in his mind.

"I swear I never saw anything like it!"

Fror held his breath as he looked behind him. A man and young woman headed toward the hill, holding each other's hands.

"The thrall women pulled weapons out of their clothes and tried to attack! It was a slaughter."

"Regni, I don't want to hear about this anymore. It's frightening."

"It's alright. I made it out. No one came near me."

Fror crept down from his spot, slinking behind tall grass and bushes not far from the lovers.

"It's just been a mad couple of days. With those Easterners here as well. They were there again today, until the king sent them away."

"Heh, I bet he didn't like that."

"Of course, he didn't. I heard him muttering something in his weird language as he left. Didn't sound none too nice." The two laid down a blanket and sat down beside each other.

Fror unsheathed his sword.

"I want the two of you to stand up, very slowly." Fror stepped toward them, holding his blade at the mans' throat.

The man turned to him, his eyes huge. "You! You're… You're the one."

"No. No please! We don't have anything!" the woman said.

"Quiet," Fror pointed his sword at the man's chest. The pair immediately went silent. "I told the both of you to stand up."

They rose to their feet, their legs shaking. "Please," the woman said. "We don't have anything."

"So you've said. Boy, you work for Ivar?"

The young man's mouth dropped open, but only a stuttering incoherent noise came out. His eyes darted between Fror and the girl.

"Nod if you have to, boy."

The man's head bobbed so quickly, Fror thought for a moment the man would hurt himself.

"The Easterner. The diplomat, you know where he is?"

"I-I-I"

"Take a breath," Fror glanced down at the road. This was taking too much time, and he stood far too open. Why did he have deal with this blubbering fool?

The boy took a gulping breath. "I know where he stays. It's a large house in the town that Ivar gave him when he got here."

"Good, take me to him."

"What about Caecilie?" the man asked. He took another deep breath.

"She's coming with us," Fror looked to the girl and motioned for her to come forward.

"But she doesn't know anything."

"Hmm," Fror turned to the girl. "And if I let you go, what will you do?"

"I," she looked to the boy. "I will go straight home, and not leave for the rest of the day." Her forehead creased as she turned to look back at Fror for a second before her eyes fell to her feet.

"You're a shit liar. Now, both of you, move."

The girl, Caecilie, grabbed the boy's hand, and the two slowly started to toward the town. They whispered to each other. What little he heard sounded like attempts to soothe each other's nerves. But Fror silenced them, he couldn't take the chance that they plotted something.

"We go in slow, and we keep to shadows. In case either of you are have any clever ideas. If we get seen, or caught, then I kill you both. Clear?"

"Yes," Caecilie muttered. Regni wrapped his arm around her, and they carried on in silence.

They crept through the outskirts of the town. Thankfully, it seemed most of the townsfolk shut themselves in their homes at the sound of trouble. They hid between buildings when the few merchants and beggars that still roamed the streets drew close, as they moved ever closer to the Eastern road out of the city.

"There it is," Regni pointed to a large building. Large red banners with the same black symbol lined the wall and guards patrolled around the entrances.

"Good, keep moving."

"But, we brought you where you needed to go. You don't need us anymore." Caecilie whispered. "Please, let us go."

"Keep. Moving." He just needed them until he was well outside Ivar's grasp. Then he could release them. But not yet. Not when they could run to Ivar directly to get him butchered.

They approached the building, Fror felt his stomach sink. This wouldn't work. He had nothing tangible to offer them, only the hope that their leaders were as angry with Ivar as he. If he figured wrong, then he'd be dead. He passed the sword between his hands to give him a chance to wipe his sweating palms on his cloths.

"You! Stop!" a guard with a deep voice commanded and held out one of those curved blades the Easterners seemed so proud of.

"You speak Dane?"

"Silence, foul barbarian." He moved closer, until his sword touched Regni's throat. "What business you have with your sword in hand?"

Shit. Fror quickly sheathed his sword. "I am here to speak with the diplomat."

The guard waved for the others posted nearby to surround him, each with their weapons at the ready. "And what business do you have with diplomat Negano?"

"An opportunity, to take back the lands that King Ivar has taken from your people. All while securing an alliance."

The guard frowned and spoke to the other guards. Soon swords and spears pressed into Fror's back a hand reached to his side and confiscated his sword. The voice behind him gave a quick word and pushed him forward and into the house.

"What are you doing?" Caecilie hissed. "We're not with you, you're going to get all of us killed."

"The diplomat is here to make an agreement with Ivar. We won the war," Regni moaned. "Why are you doing this?"

"Shut up, both of you. Just stay quiet and let me think." Fror watched the guards as they marched them throughout the home. Servants glanced at them momentarily before they returned to their work. All Easterners. The diplomat wants his privacy. Good.

The guard placed them in small square room, with intricate paintings on the walls depicting waterfalls and trees.

"Sit. Wait." The guards shoved the three into lavish seats of multicolored fabrics. The lead guard left them to the others who stood staring at them, weapons at the ready. The two townsfolk whispered between themselves, while Fror tried to size up the guards. They weren't particularly tall, but they seemed disciplined and armored. If this worked, maybe he could have a chance against Ivar. If it didn't then no matter what he did he would die. _A fate well deserved._

The guard returned and pointed to Fror while speaking in his native tongue. Fror heard the name for language before, Nihongo. That sounds right. The diplomat entered after him, a frown creasing his already wrinkled face.

"Hashiba has informed me that you have a proposition for me. You, who have just now rushed into defeat."

"You must be the wise, Negano. I do."

"We don't!" Regni stood up. "Please, this man forced us to come here. I am sorry, Jarl Nagano. We did not mean to disturb you."

Fror winced, fools. He always ended up getting stuck with half-brained fools that couldn't look a step ahead.

"Silence, I am not speaking to the slave that fetches me drinks. You, with the dead eyes, speak your deal."

Fror took a breath. "Your master sent you here to arrange a peace between Shin Nihon and the Danes, but he does not truly want peace. He wants his lands back, the ones that Ivar has taken. He wants Ivar's head on a spear, for the embarrassment he caused your people."

The old man nodded. "All know this. None enjoy defeat."

"This morning, I came closer to ending Ivar than your armies ever did."

"And you failed. Shin Nihon has no time for failures."

"I failed because of circumstances beyond my control. Alone, both of us have failed but together Ivar would not have a chance. We need each other."

Fror's head jerked to the side as the guard's hand struck his cheek. "Barbaric Impudence. Shin Nihon needs no one." He raised his hand again, preparing to strike again.

The diplomat grabbed his arm and conversed in their language. Fror's face stung, he tasted blood in his mouth where his cheek had been cut by his teeth. Could these people truly be this arrogant? No wonder they had been expelled from the far east. It's a wonder that they hadn't been slaughtered by the desert riders.

No, he couldn't get in this way of thinking. He needed them, if he couldn't get them to see his worth then he would be killed. _Breath, Fror. Arrogance can be used, like everything else_.

"My apologies, I misspoke. Shin Nihon does not need me, but I certainly need you. However, I do not beg for my life without offering to bring you anything in return. I know this land, these people, and most importantly, I know who can be brought against Ivar when your emperor decides that he needs to be destroyed."

"Hmm," the diplomat spoke again to the guard. The warrior replied, but Fror heard anger in his voice. Good, the more the brute was disappointed the better it seemed for him. "Very well, your offer has some minor benefits to it. Enough for me to send you to my daimyo. You were not seen on your way here?"

"No. No one knows I'm here, Ivar will have no idea of what we're doing."

"Good, then we shall keep it that way," the diplomat gave a word to his guard.

Blood splashed Fror from both sides, two heads landed on the floor in front of him. Regni and Caecilie looked up at him. Their faces twisted into their last terrified expression. They both had been crying. Fror hadn't realized.

_Why couldn't they just keep silent? _Because they were frightened. They had just wanted to see each other. Two young lovers meeting in their favorite place and tell about their day. Just like Megana and he used to do. And he'd killed them.

_Two more deaths on my hands. _

"Are you listening?" Negano said. "Get up!"

Fror slowly stood and met Negano's eyes. "Then you will take me to Shin Nihon?"

"Of course, and you will prove to be a great servant of the emperor. And when you return to these lands and cast down King Ivar. You will still be a servant of the emperor."

"Agreed," Fror lied.

"My samurai, Hashiba Ransune, will escort you. But if you barbarian should try any tricks he will kill you, and no one will ever know of our agreement."

Insulted and threatened before the bargain had even been struck. There's a good beginning. "Agreed." Fror got to his feet and held out his arm to the diplomat. The man scoffed and walked back out of the room.

"We go at nightfall," the guard said.

Fror nodded, "My sword?"

Hashiba snorted and held up his weapon. "This ugly thing? You will not touch it until we are well away from here." The guards pushed Fror into a cramped room. "I will come for you when we go," Hashiba said and shut the door. Only the light below the door gave him any view of the outside world. Fror crouched down to look and saw two pairs of feet shuffled about the outside. Guarded, that was the smart play. But it did not help the sinking feeling in his stomach.

He needed sleep. It looked to be a long night ahead of him. He leaned against the wall, as the room proved too small to lie down. He closed his eyes and let the fitful dreams take him. His brother and two innocent kids' faces appeared next to Maeva, Giermundr and Megana. Bjorn's face twisted in the wrath of combat. Regni and Caecilie cried as shadowy figures hacked their necks. They blamed him. All five of them blamed him. All of them right to do so.

Each of the spectral faces opened their mouths and cried in unison. "Oathbreaker, kinslayer, monster, betrayer."

"We just wanted to be left alone," the two cried.

"Brother, I trusted you with everything. You abandoned me."

"Oathbreaker, kinslayer, monster, betrayer."

"You sent me to die, because you were too scared to face your guilt."

"You let me do it. You could have stopped me. You could have stopped me!"

"Oathbreaker, kinslayer, monster, betrayer."

"You killed me, boy. Always knew you'd amount to nothing. And now you've dragged everyone to nothing with you."

"Oathbreaker, kinslayer, monster, betrayer!"

Fror fell to the ground as the heads hovered around him. "I had to."

The heads screamed their accusations.

"I had no choice. You left me no choice! What more could I have done?"

"Oathbreaker! Kinslayer! Monster! Betrayer!"

"I had to!" Fror voice rang through the empty room. No ghosts, only the faint light that grew as the door creaked open.

Hashiba looked down at him with a disgusted frown. "Get up. We leaving."

Fror got to his feet. The voices of the dead followed him. A servant handed him a hooded cloak. Hashiba went to a door and quickly glanced outside. He nodded to the servants and they rushed outside. One servant helped Fror onto a horse.

Hashiba and other samurai mounted as well and made a tight formation with Hashiba in the lead and the others close beside Fror, so he could do nothing but follow. They rode out of town without incident and continued for hours until the sun crept over the hills.

Hashiba called for the group to pause and give the horses a rest. After a few hours and some boiled fish with a strange grain for a meal Hashiba called for the men to mount and continue. They moved at that pace for weeks, until the day Hashiba stopped the group to shout something in their tongue, eliciting a cheer from the other two.

"What happened?" Fror asked Hashiba.

"We have entered the territory of glorious empire."

"Oh," Fror said. It did not look much different from his home. Perhaps a little warmer, but the winter always came later in the south. It wasn't until they reached the first town that he finally noticed the difference.

Fror knew that the Easterners of the Shin Nihon had fled from their doomed homeland. But they conquered new lands with a ferocity and brutality that many remembered a hundred years later. This town bore the signs of that. The architecture created a strange hybrid of styles. Many buildings looked as they must have a hundred years ago, when the Rus people held these lands. On others strange colorful decorations and odd shaped lanterns hung from the walls. And still more looked as though they had been transported directly from some strange dream, with curved roofs that jutted out over the walls. The diversity did not appear to be shared by the people. Every face he passed looked Eastern, with no trace of the Rus remaining. He wondered where all those people must have gone but decided he did not want to hear the answer.

They rested in the town for the night and bought provisions in the morning before they continued. They moved at a more leisurely pace, which Fror and the horses appreciated. The guards even seemed more at ease, laughing and joking to each other in their odd language.

While they joked and swapped stories, Fror listened. The language was strange, far removed from anything he had heard before. Some of the traders that stopped by Giertvedt would speak in the language of the Christians, and while their words were incomprehensible the language still had a flow to it that Fror could hear. The language of these Easterners sounded completely different.

The first words he deciphered were their names. Hashiba he already knew, brutish and strong he oversaw the others with harsh sounding words. The 'samurai' rarely smiled and even rarer would he tell his own stories to the other two.

Fror found the others more interesting, Hasedaira and Minamoto. Hasedaira laughed the easiest and spoke the most and was always the recipient of whatever criticisms Hashiba gave. While Minamoto towered over the others and did his best to keep the other two from turning their shouts into violence.

From the three, Fror learned some key words, first 'woman' which seemed to be a focus of many of Hasedaira's tales. Then the words for the food they always ate. Yes. No. Samurai seemed to mean warrior, or maybe huskarl was more accurate.

One night the group set up their camp and made their fish and rice meal. Soon the three went to sleep. Fror waited until he heard Hashiba's snores then crept out as he had done for the last several nights. He walked a distance away from them and practiced the language.

The words felt wrong in his mouth, as he tried to force his tongue to move in patterns it did not know. He ran down the list of words he knew, stopping to correct himself when his pronunciation strayed too far into Dane.

He went through the list again and smiled. This time the words felt better, and he didn't hear anything too off from what the others said.

The crack of a twig sounded behind Fror. His eyes widened as he twisted around and saw a short thin man dark clothes. The man's sword pointed toward him. They both paused, and the little man smiled.

"You're doing well." He waved his Eastern sword, the katana, at Fror. "Very well for a buta."

Fror lifted his hands. "I… have… none," Fror struggled to fit his words into Nihongo.

"But those samurai do, keep quiet and O genkide. I won't hurt you." The man stepped closer with the smile that didn't reach his eyes.

Fror's eyes searched the woods. Several men with heavy armor lurked closer to their campsite. All their weapons drawn. One moved swiftly a mad grin plastered over his face, blood mad. He'd seen that same look on Rokr more than once. They were coming to kill and strip their bodies. Not just to rob them.

Fror held his hands high and stepped toward the thin man. The man's smile widened and he raised his blade to cut him. Fror dove at the man. Close the distance, like Giermundr taught. Make sure the blow does not gain speed.

His hands grabbed around the bandit's wrist and elbow. The man shouted something in Nihongo straight into Fror's ear. Fror pivoted and pulled the arm over his shoulder until he heard the loud snap of the man's bones and the sword clattered to the ground.

"Ambush!" Fror screamed in Dane. "Wake up! Ambush!"

His words mingled in the night air with the screams from the bandit. Fror let go of his opponent and reached for the katana.

"Gahh, fuck!" pain shot through his leg as he stumbled forward a step and turned to see his enemy. The bandit stepped over the fallen sword. His broken arm hanging useless on his side, but in his good arm he held a smaller blade.

The bandit shouted at him, too quick for Fror to decipher the words in his head. Doesn't matter, I won't be able to trick the man again. And I'm still fucking unarmed. Well, best not delay the inevitable. Fror screamed and ran toward his camp, being sure to stay out of the thin man's reach.

The guards already armed themselves. None wore their armor and didn't seem to carry shields with them. Against the five warriors that Fror saw in the woods, one of which with a broken arm. He needed a plan and a weapon.

"Sword! I need my sword!" Fror ran toward the guards.

Hashiba scowled at him "A true samurai needs no help from barbarians." He turned toward the bandits and raised his blade.

_Stupid, arrogant bastard_. Fror ran toward the packs in the camp and searched for something to use as a weapon. The loud clang of swords and the howls of men behind him carried him forward ever faster. His fingers fumbled at the ties, and one pack slipped out of his hand and spilled its contents across the grass. He swept through them hoping to find anything to use as a weapon.

He grabbed a small eating knife, half the size of a dirk. The sounds of battle grew ever louder and he grabbed another bag.

"Die buta!"

The man with the broken arm rushed toward him. His blade held high, and his arm hanging limp and flapping behind him as he ran.

Fror ground his teeth together and clutched his knife. Not yet, he didn't have what he needed! Fror dashed to his side as the wicked looking blade descended toward his head.

The bandit screamed and tried to strike him low. Fror jumped backward and stumbled on the uneven ground. He landed hard on his tailbone and swore. His attacker laughed and walked up to him holding his blade high.

The bandit thought he had won. And lazily lifted his weapon high. "I have you now, ugly buta." The final attack descended slow. Fror rolled to the side and felt the blade impact the ground behind him. Then he rolled back, the metal pushed into his shirt, but the flat of the blade would not harm him.

The force on the blade pulled it out of the bandit's hands. The idiot stared at Fror his mouth hung open as his laugh caught in his throat.

Fror kicked his leg and connected with the dangling broken arm. The bandit howled in pain and fell to his knees. Fror pushed himself forward and landed on the bandit, his knife pointed at the man's throat.

"Jihi" the man said. "Please, jihi."

Fror grunted as he pushed the knife into the gap between the man's shoulder and neck.

"Jihi, jihi" the man continued to cry as blood bubbled from the wound. "Jihi," his voice grew weaker and the light finally dwindled from his eyes.

Fror let the corpse fall to the ground. Then turned and picked up the sword. "Shit." Placing his weight on the blade had bent it. The tip curved away, no longer in line with the guard. It wouldn't cut well, not like this. Still better than the knife.

Fror steadied himself with a breath and observed the combat. Hashiba stood waving his blade about, a whirl of motion. His weapon knocking aside his enemies and drawing blood from the thin gaps in his opponent's armor. Minamoto lay on the ground his blood covered chest heaved in uneven breaths. While Hasedaira fought overtop his fallen comrade waving his blade about. He kept the bandits from making the final killing blow, but his blade came nowhere close to hitting his opponents.

He'd run out of energy soon, and then they would kill him.

Fror looked down at his twisted blade. He could flee, take a horse and ride back home. No. He'd never survive out here alone, even if the bandits didn't hunt him down. And then what, live in poverty? Get captured and killed by Ivar?

No. He needed them to succeed here.

_But the horses, that could work_. Fror ran toward the horses, tied to a tree not far from the campsite. He untied the four animals and hopped on one. Holding the other horse's reins he kicked at the animals and screamed at them to run.

They rushed forward in a cluttered wave. As the heavy pounding of the hooves drew close, the combatants all looked to Fror and his small cavalry charge.

"Odin owns you all!" Fror roared. His blade slashed down at one of the bandits. It clanked harmlessly as he struck the man's helmet. The horse behind Fror had more luck.

The man screamed as the hooves burst the seams of his armor and pressed into his flesh. The charge carried forward toward Hashiba. This time Fror aimed his blade carefully and swung it to hook under a bandit's helmet toward their neck.

The blade struck and latched into the man's throat. Arms flailed at Fror and clutching at him, before they went limp. The full weight of the bandit yanked Fror down and off the horse. He landed shoulder first onto the corpse.

"Fuck," Fror got to his feet and watched as the horses trampled away. Problem for later, there were still two more that needed killing.

Hashiba seemed to be holding his own. Fror ran to Hasedaira and screamed as his blade struck at the back of the man. It caught armor again and bounced off. The man turned, his entire face covered with a red mask. It looked like one of Hela's servants, with anger and contempt in its eyes.

The distraction gave Hasedaira an opening. The guard's sword smacked their enemy in the side, doubling him over. Fror grabbed the mask and pulled the helmet off.

Beneath the helmet, a small angry face glared at him. It shouted something in Nihongo. Fror snapped his blade into the man's face. It didn't cut clean and stopped on the man's hard skull. The man screamed again. Fror screamed back. And struck again and again onto the man's face. Layers of skin peeled back as Fror worked his way down the man's face. Eyes popped, then his nose flung off, then his lips scrapped away. Until the man collapsed and clutched at his ruined face.

"It is over," Hashiba's voice came from behind Fror. The man stood with his blade bloody, the final opponent collapsed in the dirt a few paces behind him. "Even a disgraced ronin like him does not deserve this. Finish him."

Fror threw down his broken blade and grabbed his sword hanging at Hashiba's belt. "My sword," he said in Nihongo.

The samurai's eyes widened in shock, but he did not stop Fror from taking the weapon. Fror leaned over the mutilated man. He continued to twitch on the ground, his hands covering what remained of his face. Fror placed the tip of the sword where he thought the throat should be and pushed. The sword split through hand and then face, causing the body to spasm until the man finally died.

"Odin owns you."

* * *

Hashiba and Fror spent the rest of the night tracking their horses. Once they were found they tied Minamoto across one of their backs and helped Hasedaira onto another. A jagged cut ran across his shoulder down to his hip. The man would die soon, but Fror didn't have the heart to tell Hashiba. They travelled for two days, only slowing down on occasion for the sake of the horses. Fror watched the quivering body as they travelled. Whatever they did to help Minamoto wouldn't matter. Mercy would be to kill the man and take him out of his misery.

Sometime during the second night, Fror could no longer hear the man's struggling breaths and knew it was done. Hasedaira wept when he found out. But Hashiba's showed no anger, no sadness when they untied Minamoto and buried him. Truth be told, it frightened Fror more than anything he'd yet seen from the man. After the burial they rode on until they reached the tall walls of a city.

It was huge, grander than anything he'd ever seen among the Danes. The buildings built directly out of the stones, curving into the walls itself. With curved triangular designs marking each layer of the castle.

"Does your emperor live here?"

"No," Hashiba said with his usual arrogant tone. "Just a daimyo, the emperor live somewhere far more grand."

There were places grander than this? How does the building even hold itself up? Shouldn't it collapse under its own weight? How many thralls would they need to construct all of it? How many years to build it?

The group rode through the gate, Fror's mouth dropped as his eyes roamed across the smooth stonework. Then once they passed under the stone wall they entered the wide area within the walls. The open ground alone could fit Harald's Hall.

_How did Ivar fight these people? How did he win? Did the Christians have places like this? Is this why Maeva never returned? I must be the biggest fool under the Sun._

Fror followed Hashiba's lead through the grounds, until they came to a huge stable full of horses. They dismounted and gave the reins to the workers. All the while Hashiba instructed various attendants to announce their small group to the daimyo.

As the stablehands found room for their mounts the attendants flocked around them. Nearly dragging them toward the main building that dominated the city. While they bowed with respect toward Hashiba, the attendants turned their noses up at Fror giving him mild nods.

Fror frowned. Odd how they clearly insulted him but were still giving him more outward signs of respect than his own people ever did. The bowing and scraping felt wrong. No one treated Ivar with the deference they were giving a mere guard.

Was Hashiba only a guard? Perhaps 'samurai' meant something more than warrior. Fror looked to the guard with suspicion as the servants took them up the many steps into the castle. He didn't look particularly noble, with the weathered look on his face mixed with a few scars. He did carry himself with a certain haughtiness. But as far as Fror could tell, that seemed a trait universal to these people.

The servants led them through the decorated halls of the castle. Halls! It seemed like someone took Harald's Hall, then placed Giertvedt on top of it, with the hall of three other Jarls all arranged around it.

How many huskarls could this place hold? All of Ivar's army and more.

The attendants bowed once more to Hashiba then opened a large wooden door. Inside a massive man sat at the front of a strangely low table. One pile of papers in front of him and a bowl of sweet smelling food teetering on another pile off to the side. The man would read then pluck out a piece of food from the bowl. His multiple chins wobbled as he chewed.

As Hashiba, Hasedaira, and Fror drew close the fat man looked up from his paper.

"Ah, come in," the man said with his mouth still full. Bits of food dribbled down his lip and landed on his stomach. "You are Hashiba, correct?"

"I am."

"And this one here. This is the gift you told my servants about?"

"Yes, Daimyo Toshimo. An exiled prince from the savage lands. His support could prove useful."

"And does he speak our language?"

"A little," Fror said.

The fat man smiled. "Good, I hate speaking through translators." He stood up, and Fror finally got a look at his arms. Thick as tree trunks with solid muscle beneath the layer of flab. He moved around the table with surprising agility and lightness. A warrior then, one that let himself grow fat. Not the first Fror had seen, though a rarity now amongst the Danes.

Toshimo bowed low, "A prince is always welcome in my home. Please come, all of you sit down. We have much to discuss and you must be hungry."

Fror smiled, he hadn't eaten a decent meal since he left Giertvedt. His stomach audibly grumbled. "Sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry about, I always expect a meal after a long ride. And any other opportunity provided!" the fat man laughed and patted his stomach. "Sit down, all of you. And tell me of your travels into the fearsome Daneland. I have heard such wild stories, and I want to hear everything."

Fror looked at the low table with no chairs or stools around it, only padded cloths in roughly the form of a seat. Everyone else gracefully sat around the table. The fat man looked at him again, smiled and waved toward the cushions.

Fror nodded and tried to stick his leg into the pads and under the table as he plopped onto the pads. Hasedaira stifled a laugh as Fror tried to arrange his legs in a comfortable manner. He settled on an arrangement that had his legs extended below the table, his feet pressing against it. Not exactly comfortable, but it would work.

"Well done," the daimyo smiled. "Now, explain what adventures saw you to my door?"

A group of servants delivered a large bowl of delicious smelling food. Fror grabbed at the dish and wolfed it down. Instead of eating, Hashiba told the story of Fror's attack on Ivar, failure, and appearance at Negano's home. Hashiba gave succinct details, but Fror noticed he left out the murder of the two lovers, and only briefly mentioned the attack by the ronin.

Toshimo nodded along, quietly feasting while the samurai gave his report. Only interrupting for minor clarifications. When the report finished, the daimyo turned to Fror. "Is that how you remember it as well?"

Fror nodded. "Aye, for the most part."

"Did you speak our language before you met your compatriot's here?"

"No. I learned on the road, not much else to do."

Toshimo nodded. "So, you're clever then. Good, always best to do business with the intelligent. Though, one wonders, if you are so clever why did your plan to kill Ivar not succeed?"

_He's testing me, but what does he want to see? A mindless barbarian, he could manipulate from afar, or a partner?_ From what Fror saw the fat man seemed respectful enough and didn't look down at him like Hashiba and Negano. _But I'm still asking him to put me on a throne. I need to seem to be clever enough to succeed, but controllable_.

"I trusted the wrong people. And Ivar is clever himself, as I'm sure you're aware."

The fat man nodded, "Yes. He is a ruthless opponent. Four years I've fought against him, and each one he picks at my outlying villages. Never straying in too far. Never letting his army get caught in a poor position."

"We shall marshal our forces. When the savages return to our lands, we shall crush them," Hashiba said, his tone even. As though this was the only possible outcome to such a conflict.

"Well, we can certainly hope so. And with warriors like you and Hasedaira here I'm certain the next campaign will be a bloody one." The fat man raised his small glass to Hashiba then downed it. Holding it out for a servant to fill with more of the strange hot wine they had been drinking.

They continued discussing the next season's battle plans as they ate. Fror mostly sat and listened. Toshimo played the host, heaping admiration on Hashiba and Hasedaira and even showing respect to Fror. But the plans lacked substance. Words about gathering people, and better armor and weapons. But nothing about where to establish outposts against the raids. Where they should attack, what territory they should burn to give Ivar's forces no food to eat. All of it empty talk of warriors who did not know how to prevent a raid.

Finally, Toshimo finished his last plate and the meal concluded. Fror silently thanked the gods, his legs had long ago fallen asleep from sitting in this strange position for so long.

"Now, my noble samurai. The grounds of my castle are yours. My servant, Kazuhiro will give you a fine reward for your service and later I shall give you a message to deliver to Negano. But for now I would like to discuss certain matters with this quiet prince you brought me."

"Of course, my daimyo," Hashiba and Hasedaira said in unison. They bowed and were escorted out of the room by a few servants.

Toshimo waited until the doors firmly shut. "So, Fror, what did you think of our chances come next years raids?"

"I think your warriors are strong and loyal. I am sure they will guard your territory well."

"And what of our plans? Do you think we will be prepared with the additional soldiers?"

_No. You're focused entirely on the wrong thing_. Fror opened his mouth but paused. What if he says the clever thing when he needs to play the fool? "I think with a capable commander your larger army could overwhelm Ivar's."

Toshimo's eyes narrowed and the smile finally dropped from his lips. "If all you have to say are mindless praise, then I think we're done here. I get that enough from my servants."

Not time to play the fool, then. "Your warriors think only how to fight. How to come at the problem the same way they always have. Relying only on their strength to win. That won't work."

Toshimo nodded. "As we've learned the last few years. Go on."

"Ivar is not going to risk his army in a fair fight. He wants to raid, to gain resources, and hold hostages. You need to think about how to prevent someone from continuing to raid. How to cut off possible pathways for his warriors to move. You need to make raiding your lands more difficult than the benefit he'd gain from looting the territory."

"Good, you're not a halfwit. And how would you stop the Danes?"

"I'd start constructing forts along your borders. Probably too late for the next raid, but the one after that could work. Other than that, empty the territory. Burn the fields and force your freemen out, so there is nothing for Ivar to take."

Toshimo nodded. "As I feared. Sadly, doing that would be near ruinous. Those lands and their property are mine, and I cannot afford weakening my lands. Especially now." The fat man smiled. "But of course, there is the other way."

"Give me your warriors. Together we can kill Ivar, I can stop the raids on your lands."

"Ahh, but even in that there is risk. I could give you my warriors and you could squander them as you have with your first attempt on Ivar's life."

The fat man held back. He wanted something more from the deal, some added concessions.

"The land Ivar took will be returned to you of course."

He waved on meaty arm. "Poor lands at the edge of my territory. You can keep them for all I care. I have more pressing concerns that require a peaceful northern border. Let's make this simple, you ask me to aid you kill a king? Very well, but I will require a life from you in return. But another man needs to die, and I want you to kill him for me."

Fror took a breath. Was he an assassin now? Everyone he had ever attacked had been justified. They had attacked his family or people. They had threatened his life or doomed him to starvation. But that had all gone out of control. He already had blood on his hands, what would a little more matter?

"Who do I need to kill?"

The fat man's grin grew wide. "One frail old fool, but a fair trade I think. Your king, for mine."


	9. Mission 8: Home

The berserker laid on the prow of his ship, his arms propped his chin up as he looked toward the horizon. The shore of Giertvedt, peaked ahead. Rokr ground his teeth together and his guts tangled with every choppy wave the ship went over. He glanced back to the other ship, now without her captain. His fault. All his fault. He closed his eyes and she stood before him, laughing and performing the spear dance. He should have listened to her.

Rokr sighed and got to his feet. No use putting off the meeting. He stretched his back and legs then turned to his men. "Ready the oars. We're getting close." The men cheered as they grabbed their oars from under the benches. Others angled the sail as they tried to catch the wind.

"Fuck is that?" one of the men muttered.

Rokr looked up from the steering oar and squinted, a faint cloud of smoke lifted above the trees. "Fuck. It's burning! Giertvedt is burning! Oars! Now!"

He ran to the back of his ship waving and screaming to Halfdanr on the other ship. The merchant waved back and began bellowing toward his crew. Rokr ran toward his steering oar. His knuckles turned white as he gripped the oar and turned it to navigate the twisting river. "Row! Faster! Faster!"

As the ship made the final turn, Rokr's heart dropped into his stomach. The great hall burned. The gate had been smashed open. Warriors roamed the ground their blades dripping red as they hacked at the screaming villagers.

Rokr's arms shook and foam dripped off the corner of his mouth. "Weapons!" he snarled through clenched teeth. "We're going in killing." Several of his warriors released their oars and ran to the lower deck. They returned moments later their arms full of weapons and armor. They rushed throughout around the decks, fitting helmets and mail shirts to the rowers. Rokr grabbed his bearskin pelt and threw it on.

"Odin!" Rokr called over the clinking of mail and the thud of the oars churning the water. "Guide me once more. Let your gift fill me." He began to stamp his feet to the rhythm of the waves. "I give my axe to you, and every death it brings." He bit his shield as he continued to stomp. His saliva dripped into his patchy beard. The sound of the oars drifted away, and the secrets of the world were made clear to him.

On the shore men killed his people. The first thrall he had taken when he became a man had her head split in two. The servant that brought him his food every morning lay still, only a growing pool of blood beneath him indicating his death. Two warriors held down one of Freyrdi's girls, as she thrashed in their arms cursing their names.

The ships touched the dock, and Rokr leaped onto the ground. Several of the warriors looked at the ships in confusion.

"Wait, you're not Emdri, who-"

Rokr's axe did not let the man finish his thought. The man stood for a few seconds clutching at the wound in his neck, before he toppled to the ground.

"Shit! That's him! The Odin-Blessed! It's him!" The others took a step back, one turned to run. Rokr threw his axe at the man, it embedded into his back, and he screamed as he fell to the ground. More.

"For Giertvedt!" the men screamed as they jumped from their ships and took up their spears. Rokr pulled his axe from the coward's back as he charged. He moved toward the healing girl, still thrashing on the ground. One of the warriors had his pants down between his legs as he laughed with his friend.

Rokr's axe came up between his legs, bursting whatever it touched. The man screamed and rolled on the ground in agony. The other's eyes opened wide as he let go of the girl and tried to back away holding his arm out in front of him. Rokr lopped the man's arm off with one quick strike. He fell back screaming nearly as loud as the other. He killed the man and continued. The girl screamed and rushed to her feet, as she ran back toward the docks. Behind them his vikings grouped up with the others from Halfdanr's ship.

"Rokr!" Olaf ran to his side. The old Dane pointed toward the great hall. The raiders stood more organized as they dragged screaming thralls and what scraps they found useful behind them. Further down a group made some stand against the enemy, though they would quickly be overrun.

"Them!" Rokr pointed toward the defenders with his weapon, saliva dripping down his chin. "I save. You, shield wall. Follow."

Olaf nodded and returned to begin lining up the others. Rokr looked back over the others. "You," he pointed toward one of the younger more agile looking warriors. "You. You. And you. Follow."

The five of them roared as they charged the small group of defenders. The enemy lined attempted to turn as they saw Rokr's group, but not quick enough. Rokr leaped forward his axe hewed exactly where he wanted it. To get within his reach meant death. They dared to come to his home. They dared to put up such a paltry defense.

He heard Odin laughing about him as the slaughter commenced. Pushing him further to greatness. Beside him one of his number took a spear to the chest and toppled to the ground. But it didn't matter. Nothing mattered so long as more could be sacrificed to the gods.

"Rokr!" one of the terrified faces screamed as he hacked it apart from ear to chin. "It's the fucking Odin-Blessed!" another turned and tried to run through the mass of his allies. Rokr's axe slashed through the man's back. Soon the scream "Rokr!" filled the air louder than the beautiful sounds of metal and death. A clatter of weapons and shields struck the ground and the host fled.

The berserker screamed and gave chase. "Come back! Fight! Die! Cowards!"

"Rokr," a soft voice came behind him.

He turned, his axe raised to strike down this new threat covered in ill-fitting armor and holding a shaky spear.

"Thank you, you saved us." The voice sounded familiar.

"You?" The thrall, Helgi. The one Bjorn enjoyed fucking. What was he doing on the battlefield? Ergi don't belong here. "Where Bjorn? Fror?"

Helgi shook his head, "We don't have time to explain. We need to get them out of here." Helgi waved toward the people behind him. Women, children, and old men. All of them holding spears, daggers, and chipped shields.

Rokr pointed toward the beach and his warriors. "Run to them! I kill, find more!"

"We won't be able to just stay on the beach. I'm planning on leading the people to Warrenloch."

To Alfhild? How horrid had things gone since they left?

"Fine, take ships to that bitch. I kill!"

Rokr ran toward the Hall. Screams and howling laughter filled the air thicker than the smoke. Warriors dragged thralls and wheeled a barrel of mead out the doors. They thought they already won. They let their guard down. They do not respect the dangers of war. They do not respect Tyr, and the god's wrath would only be quenched with their death.

The one rolling the barrel looked up laughing and joking. His face twitched into surprise just before Rokr's axe split his head down the middle. Those nearby jumped back in surprise and fumbled for their weapons. Tyr smiled through Rokr's lips and Thor strengthened his arm. He hacked and kicked and bit at whatever came close to him and he charged through the hall.

"Go! To the beach!" he screeched as he ran past thralls and servants. Some laid dying, begging for Rokr to drag them to safety. But that was not his purpose. Others would come, or they would die. Either way, he needed to kill.

"Wait," a voice said. Not in his head. Not Odin. "Wait. Rokr!"

The berserker stopped and searched for the noise. A man, one of the warriors he chose gasped as he staggered after Rokr. Where did the others go?

"Wait. Rokr. I can't keep going."

"Then stop."

The man grimaced. "You'll die if you keep going alone. We need a plan."

"Plan is to kill. You can't kill, you are no use."

"Fuck," the Viking took a heavy breath. "Off."

Rokr smiled, this one had pride, and he survived this long. Rokr tried to remember his name, they spent months on Viking together. He remembered the man perform the axe dance while jumping around the confines of the ship during a peaceful day of sailing. Raymond, Reremond? Something like that.

"We need… a plan."

"Talk quick. Odin calls."

R-mond took a breath and pointed at some of the corpses nearby. "Look at their shields, these are Ivar's men. He must be here, we need to find him and kill him."

"A Holmganga for Giertvedt?"

"Maybe, or we just ignore the ceremony and kill the fucker."

"Good, we kill until we find."

"No! I-"

But Rokr heard enough. He needed to find the main army, not the looters that remained here. He rushed out of the shell of Giertvedt and heard a crunch and a groan when he stepped across the corpses.

One of the corpses twitched and clutched at the stump of his hand. Not a corpse at all! Someone who needed to die then.

"For you, Odin!" Rokr held is axe over the handless man. Then hesitated, something pulled at his mind. Odin whispered his deep wisdom into Rokr's mind. He felt his heart beat slow, and the foam in his mouth dry. "Where is Ivar?" Rokr screamed at the not-a-corpse.

The not-a-corpse groaned and cried. With a shaking hand it reached toward the dagger in its belt. Rokr grabbed the hand and smashed it into the ground. His saliva dripped down his chin and splattered on the not-a-corpse.

"Ivar!"

"He moved out."

"Where?"

"The nearby villages, those that owed allegiance to the Deceiver."

"Why?"

The not-a-corpse cried again.

Rokr stepped on the not-a-corpse stump of an arm and the cries turned into a scream.

"Get off him!" Someone burst into the room, a seax flashing in the light. Rokr's hand tightened on his axe, but before he stood the man's head flopped to the floor. R-mond stood over the body.

"Come on, hurry up before more show up."

"Why?" Rokr repeated to the not-a-corpse.

"He's foraging. He's going to strip all these lands of food and thralls. It's the only way."

"Only way for what?" R-mond stood by the door and periodically peaked out as he listened.

"To survive. The army ran out of supplies half way here. We foraged everything we could, but if we go back the same way there'll be nothing left."

"Direction?"

"North."

"Hrmm," Rokr embedded his axe into the man's skull. Then walked through the door, R-mond took his place at Rokr's side.

"We heading North?"

"Hrmm." Rokr waded through the piles of corpses. Some few held the shields of Ivar or one of his jarls. Most did not.

Rokr stopped as he looked at one of the warriors. Blond hair and beard turned red with blood, an arrow sticking out of his neck. But no scratches or dents marked the dead man's shield. His own shield twisted from overuse through the Viking and this new battle.

"Thank you, Odin," Rokr dropped his shield and stripped off his bearskin cloak.

"What are you doing?"

Rokr ignored R-mond and grabbed some of the less bloodied clothing from the corpses. When done he looked like a peasant boy wearing his father's old shirt. It would work, The Odin-Blessed would never make it to Ivar. One of his warriors might.

"Grab shield. Plan."

The two journeyed North quickly noticing the signs of the army's passage. Whole farms stripped bare and barns burned to the ground. Farmers and livestock lay with their belly's split and faces twisted in pain and fear.

Gods he wanted to rest. Without Odin's blessing his bones rattled as they continued to run, and his eyes grew heavy. He needed to keep going, couldn't stop. Ivar needs to die. I need to kill him. Like Maeva would want.

They passed another farm in the process of collapsing. Several warriors packed up barrels onto a cart along with a man and a group of young girls that looked to be his daughters.

"Where's the king!" Rokr panted as he ran up to the warriors.

"'Bout a mile that way," one of the warriors pointed. "Why?"

"Giertvedt! Two ships full of warriors showed up. They attacked. I saw him."

"Who?"

"The Odin-Blessed! He's there."

"Never seen nothing like it," R-mond picked up the lie. "He killed at least a dozen by himself! Maybe more I dunno. We got to tell the king."

"Shit, follow me. Oh shit, oh shit." One of the warriors ran.

Rokr took a deep gulping breath and ran. He felt as though he trudged through the water, dragging a ship full of warriors behind him. By the time they reached the war host Rokr worried his legs would fall out from under him.

"Please, Odin, give me strength," he whispered as they drew close. "Just a little longer, and I'll give you a king as tribute."

"Make way, we need to see the king!" the warrior that led them shouted as he shoved his way through the throngs of the army. The raiders looked at the three of them in confusion, but none of them got in their way. The warrior continued to scream for the king until they reached a tall man with a spit red beard.

"What's the problem?" the man stepped in front of them, his hands holding a blood covered great axe.

"Harrim," their guide panted. "Two ships have arrived at Giertvedt, they all carried warriors. They had Rokr the Odin-Blessed with them!"

"Shit," Harrim muttered and stroked one of the forks of his beard. "Was wondering where that bastard hid. Perhaps that's the Deceiver's counterattack, then?" He turned and waved for the three of them to follow.

He led them just off the main war host. Three heavily armored huskarls cheered as another fought a lone warrior. Barely more than a child, the warrior hacked at his opponent and screamed.

The boy's opponent batted away the attack with ease, and in a swift motion caught the axe between his shield and the ground then kicked down breaking the weapon in two. The boy stepped back and fumbled for his dagger.

"You've fought well, boy. But there's no need to kill yourself." The warrior took off his helmet revealing dark hair and beard with streaks of grey. "We only wish to take what we need, then we'll be on our way."

"We don't have anything!" the boy wept and lunged with the dagger.

The man stepped out of the way of the blade and smacked the boy with the flat of his sword as he passed. The boy stumbled and fell face first into the dirt.

"Stay down, boy. The more you struggle the harder this will be for you."

"Ivar!" Harrim shouted and walked toward the warrior. "Ivar we don't have time for this."

That was him, then. The warrior with greying hair, and the proud look stepped away from the struggling boy and looked to Harrim.

"I'm in the middle of something Harrim. This boy challenged me before the gods. I gave my vows to them that I would finish this fight myself."

"Then kill him and be done with it."

"I'm not trying to kill him, he's young and brave. He could be the next Sigfried."

The boy stood up and lunged again. This time when Ivar knocked him with his flat he remained on his feet and tried to turn and swipe at the king. A poorly aimed strike that only hit air.

"See? He's improving."

"My king, warriors in ships landed at Giertvedt. Rokr the Odin-Blessed is taking back the Hall."

"What?" Ivar's sword sang and in two swift strokes he cut into one of the boy's legs, nicking just below where his mail hauberk stopped. The boy fell to his knee and screamed.

Ivar did not look at his opponent. He marched toward Harrim and the others. "You three, patch the boy up, I don't want him losing that leg." He said as he passed by his three huskarl guards. "Harrim, who are these three?"

"We were at the beach. We saw Rokr and his men slaughtering our people," R-mund said.

"They met up with me and I brought them to you, my king," their guide said.

The king nodded. "You all have done well. You," he pointed to the guide. "You are now," he tugged at one of the medallions hanging from his neck and handed it to him. "My herald. Go to all my thegns and tell them to meet back up and get in a formation. We are moving back to Giertvedt."

"Yes, my king!" The man clutched Ivar's medallion as though a god had gifted it to him and ran to fulfill his duty.

"You two saw it?"

"Yes," Rokr said, his voice weak.

"I need you to tell me everything. How many ships? How many warriors?"

"Four ships, full of warriors," R-mond said.

"Shit," Ivar muttered. "Four ships with the Odin-Blessed at the head, probably with Fror the fucking Deceiver making a plan. And I left my flank exposed."

They stepped further away from the guards, still patching up the boy. The rest of the army too far away to matter. And Ivar right in his reach. Rokr lifted his axe and his lip curled into a snarl.

"Ivar!" Harrim shouted, his longaxe knocking Rokr's weapon out of the way.

"For Giertvedt!" R-mond shouted and slammed into Harrim with his shield, sending the huskarl stumbling forward. "I got this one, kill him!"

Ivar's sword slashed forward, Rokr barely raised his shield in time to knock it aside.

"Rokr, I presume?" the king said, as he twirled his sword into a defensive position.

"Aye,"

"Attacking in the back? I hoped for more from you." The blade slashed at Rokr's head and then side. The berserker stepped aside and panted. Fuck he was too tired for this. _Odin, where are you? Take me._

_I need you._

"Or did Fror order you to attack this way? That stands more to reason. He seems so eager to piss on honor."

"No more than you deserve," Rokr caught a cut with his shield and lashed out with his axe at an exposed arm. He missed as the king stepped back and took a breath to refocus. "You killed Giermundr!" He stomped his feet and bit at his shield. But nothing.

"You done?" King Ivar twirled his sword.

Rokr threw himself forward with a roar, his axe descended in a deadly cut at the king's face. Too slow. Too weak. Gods he was tired.

The king knocked the axe aside with ease and hacked at Rokr. The sword pushed the top of his shield down. Rokr howled as the tip of the sword cut into his shoulder.

"I expected better, not that I'm disappointed." The king stepped out of reach and watched as Rokr struggled to lift his shield arm. "Put down your axe, Odin-Blessed. Fror is feeding you lies. I never touched Giermundr."

"You destroyed my home!" Rokr thrust his shield. The pain in his shoulder burned and he felt the warmth of his blood drip down his side. The shield slipped past Ivar's guard and smashed into his face.

The king stumbled back, his weapon hung in the air.

Rokr hooked his axe on the sword and pulled. The sword clattered to the ground as Ivar's grip broke. "For Giertvedt!" Even without his gift none could defeat him. Rokr's lips twisted into a smile as he raised his axe for the killing blow.

A weight pressed into his hip, and Rokr fell to the ground. As he rolled to his feet, his weight pressed against his wounded shoulder. Another spurt of pain spread through Rokr's body.

Harrim stood between him and his king. A fresh cut split the huskarl's face from chin to cheek, but his longaxe dripped more blood.

Rokr quickly glanced to his side, R-mond lay on the ground. A deep wound cleaved through his shoulder and into his torso. He still struggled, grasping at the wound. His mouth opening for deep hacking breaths as his life slowly drained away. Ivar slowly got to his feet and picked up his sword from the ground. He spat out a tooth and took his spot by his huskarl.

"Thank you, Harrim. My fault, thought I had him and let my guard down."

"You let your guard down, next to the fucking Odin-Blessed?"

"Getting stupid in my old age." The king tapped his sword on his shield and cracked his neck. "Won't happen again."

Rokr stood low, well protected from his shield as he looked around. Two of them, at his best he could take him. But around them, Ivar's warriors drew close. The huskarl's that patched up the boy ran with their weapons ready. All told, around twenty men.

"Alright, Rokr. You can't win this. Drop your axe, and I will spare you. You deserve a better master than a coward. You could be honored as the greatest berserker of our age. As you should have been for years. Just put down your weapons."

"Hrm." If he struck now, he may be able to kill Ivar, but Harrim would get him. Perhaps if he killed Harrim first? No, Ivar would just stay defensive until the rest of his warriors got here. Fuck. No way out of this. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

"Take it, then!" Rokr hurled his axe at the king.

The king's eyes grew wide as he swore and lifted his shield. The axeblade embedded into the shield splitting it in two and knocking the king over.

The Ivar's terrified expression was almost worth dying for. Almost. Rokr dropped his shield and fled from the battle.

"I'm alright!" he heard Ivar shout. "I'm fine, get him. Kill Rokr!" Rokr glanced over his shoulder. Harrim barely moved from his king's side. Rokr ran into the woods, hopped over the roots and underbrush. Behind him he heard the curses of Ivar's men stumbling through the forest. They didn't know these woods. These were the woods that Odin first spoke to him. He prayed they would not abandon him now.

Soon the cursing and stumbling of the king's men grew quieter. Until finally he couldn't hear their missteps at all. Rokr stopped his run and bent over, grasping his knees as he coughed and panted. Another failure. Ivar was in his hands and nothing.

"Odin, where are you?" he curled up beneath a tree. "I do what you ask. I make the offerings, and you grant me such gifts. But whenever I call upon you, you torment me? What are you trying to teach me?"

He sat clutching his wounded shoulder and waited. The soft cracking of twigs sent him clutching his legs tight. "Please let it not be Ivar," he whispered. "I can't beat him like this. I can't win. I'm nothing alone. I'm nothing without you."

A deep croak sounded over Rokr's head. Two ravens sat on a branch and looked down at him, while they cleaned their wings. One croaked again and hopped along the branch. The other cawed and followed.

"All-Father?"

The ravens called again and flew to another tree. They croaked and stared at Rokr. Slowly, he got to his feet. His body shook, but he grabbed nearby branches to steady himself. "Where are we going?"

The birds hopped from tree to tree. With each flight they moved further away. First Rokr limped, then he walked, until finally he ran after the ravens. His heart pounded in his chest. But with each step he felt his strength slowly return to his limbs until he strode across the foliage, leaping over bushes and through bushes as he tried to keep the birds within his sight.

Rokr burst through the trees into a tilled farmland. The two ravens rose up into the sky, flying well out of Rokr's reach.

"All-Father?" he called. "What now? What am I going to do here?"

The ravens didn't stop or call or sing. They only flew away. Rokr felt his tears mingle with sweat, and drip down his chin. He was out in the open, exposed to Ivar and his men. Was that what Odin wanted, for him to get caught and die?

A sharp cry brought Rokr back. A woman, about his age, held a bloody lump of clothes. He trudged over to the woman. She didn't notice him as she continued to scream. He peered over her shoulder and saw the lump of clothes for what it was, two young women. Their bodies ripped apart. The young one had it easier. A quick cut across the forehead, she'd be dead before she felt anything. The older of the two wasn't as lucky. Cuts across her arms and face, she tried to defend herself. Not well enough.

Was this what the gods wanted him to see? Two dead girls?

"Quiet," Rokr said.

The woman whirled about. Her red tear-filled eyes large with shock.

"You'll draw more raiders. They'll kill you."

"Rokr?" the girl said.

"Aye." She knew him. Not surprising, this was Giermundr's land. She must have visited Giertvedt Hall and seen him. Probably awe struck by seeing the Odin-Blessed in person.

"You're not going to kill me?"

"Why would I?"

She opened her mouth to speak, then shut it and looked to the girls in her arms.

"You'll die here. Come on."

"I'm not leaving my sisters here."

This was it then. Odin wanted this woman alive, for some reason. Then the All-Father will have this woman alive.

Rokr grabbed her by the scruff of her neck and yanked her away from the corpses.

"The fuck are you doing?" she screamed and thrashed about. A dirk appeared from under her clothes and she slashed at his arm.

He dropped the girl and stepped back. Why was it never easy, doing Odin's will?

"Leave me the fuck alone!"

"You'll die."

"Then I'll die with them, like I should have."

Fucking idiot. They needed to go, there was no point wailing about something you couldn't do anything about.

"I need to take you to safety."

The girl crawled back to the corpses and clutched them all the tighter, but she still held onto that knife.

"Fine." Rokr walked around her and picked up the corpses, hefting them over his shoulder.

"Don't touch them!"

"You need to move, you won't leave the corpses. So, I'm moving the corpses. Let's go."

Rokr stumbled forward, his body still aching from exertion. Their broken bodies bounced as he walked, oozing blood over his shirt. He heard the whimpering woman scuffle behind him.

They walked West, heading out of Fror's territory. They passed despoiled farms and slaughtered livestock. Until they finally reached a small farm that had yet to be raided. Two young farmers stood at the edge of their territory holding seaxes. The man thin with a patchy beard, and the woman at his side with iron in her eyes.

"Hold," the woman said. "What you doin' here?"

"Running from an army, what does it look like?"

The woman huffed and folded her arms. "No need to be rude, we only askin' questions."

"It's dangerous out here," the man said. "We don't want no trouble on our farm."

"It won't matter what you want," the woman Odin sent him to save said. "Ivar is coming, I don't think anyone can stop that now."

"We'll see about that. This is Alfhild's territory. And she won't take too kindly to anyone coming in here and raiding her land."

They made it. A small smile tugged at Rokr. _I'm doing it, Odin. I'm bringing the woman to safety._

"What yer names?" the woman asked as she stepped closer. "And why you carrying two dead folk?"

"Edla," the woman said. "And those are my sisters."

"She wouldn't leave without them."

"Nasty business," the farmer said. "I'm Sigyn, and that's my husband Torfi." The man gave a quick wave. "That yours?" she pointed to Rokr.

"No."

"I'm Rokr."

"Rokr?" the man stepped back and tightened his grip on the knife. "The Rokr?"

"Aye."

"Oh."

"You going to kill us?" Sigyn stepped away from the pair.

"Not unless you try to use those seaxes."

The pair quickly tucked their weapons away. "Then what do you want?" Torfi grabbed his wife's hand.

"Giertvedt fell, I'm looking for Alfhild."

"You going to kill her?" Sigyn asked.

"Not unless she tries to kill me."

That didn't seem to ease the pair at all. "If you attack her, and you lose, she'll kill us for helping you."

"Then don't help," Rokr started to walk past the pair.

"Wait," Sigyn said. "Here let us take them." She reached toward one of Edla's sisters.

"No! What are you going to do with them?"

"We're going to bury them," Torfi took the other corpse. "What are their names? We'll say the words for them."

"This is Nanna," she touched the child. "This is Jorunn."

"Hrmm," Rokr sighed as the weight was taken from his shoulders. His entire shirt was drenched with blood and grime. At least now they could get on with it. "Good? Let's go."

"No. I need to be here. I need to say my words," Edla clutched at the child's torn rags. "It's my fault. All of it is my fault."

"Don't care," Rokr said. "Odin sent me to you. You have more to do."

"What are you talking about?" Edla shouted. "What does Odin care about me? I have nothing. There is nothing I can do. I had a chance to be useful, and I failed."

"Don't know. Not my place to question the All-Father."

Edla glared at Rokr through her tears. "How do you know All-Father my purpose isn't to just come here? To bury my sisters in safety?"

Rokr looked around the near desolate farm. The crop had already been harvested, but what remained of the fields didn't look as though it had a successful harvest. The two farmers were skinny, sickly looking. If they lasted the winter it'd be by luck alone.

"Because this doesn't matter."

"It matters to me!"

Rokr shrugged. "Say your words then we leave."

Edla held onto the two corpses. Tears welled in her eyes as she begged forgiveness and told them how it was all her fault. It didn't make much sense, but Rokr kept his silence.

A loud crashing noise came from somewhere deep in the woods. "Hurry it up," Rokr called.

Edla kissed the foreheads of both of her sisters before letting the farmers take them away. "You'll say the words? You'll give the sacrifices?"

"Aye," Sigyn said. "They'll know you loved them." She put her hand on Edla's shoulder, but she shrunk away from the arm.

"I'm sorry," she said once more to the corpses.

"Let's go," Rokr took her by the arm and started to drag her as the sounds of the woods drew louder. He did not want to be here when Ivar's forces arrived. The farmers shouldn't be here either. The smart move was to just dump the bodies and run. He didn't say it out loud though. Edla would force him to carry them further or make such noise they'd be caught anyway.

Edla twisted out of his grip and started to run. At least she was heading the right way. Rokr took a deep breath than followed her.

They ran ahead of the army until neither could run further. Then they stumbled on aching legs, leaning on each other for support. Until a hall appeared on a large hill. Thin and dark, the last time Rokr had been here the ground was covered with corpses, after one of the many battles Giermundr and Alfhild fought. But now it was crowded with people, each with that dull expression of those that survived their first battle. At the docks men and woman carried the wounded out of the ships. All overseen by a short white-haired woman screaming at the top of her lungs.

"If one of you fuckers gets into my mead I will slaughter you all in your sleep! To Hela with guest's rights. You, dickhole. Move the kid off the dock so people can get through. Move, I said! Move or I will cut off the leg you have left!"

"That her?" Edla said.

"Aye."

"What will we do when we get to her?"

"I don't know. Odin will tell me."

She gave Rokr a sideways glance. "Does the All-Father talk to you? With words?"

"Sometimes, usually when he's granted me his gift. But sometimes he just sends me signs."

She nodded, though Rokr wasn't certain if she believed. "The gods never talk to me."

"Why would they waste words on some farm girl?"

"Why would they have you save one?"

Rokr shrugged and continued toward Jarlkona Alfhild Valkyrie-Born, the deadliest woman in Daneland.

"And food!" the Jarlkona waved at Helgi. "I don't have enough food for all you useless fucks! Fror saw to that at the Mill. I can barely feed the mouths I have!"

"Please, Jarlkona, there is nowhere else for us to go." The erti smiled, but Rokr saw that it did not reach his eyes. "Just a day, maybe two. Then we will leave."

"See in a breath one day becomes two. Then two will become three. Then three will become a week. All while my grain gets eaten, my mead drunk, and my livestock slaughtered. You take me for a fucking fool, girl-boy?"

Helgi's smile slipped for a moment as he looked to the man beside him.

"We don't only ask for favors. We offer gifts as well," Bester said. "Though I am in my twilight years, my council was often of aid to Giermundr and his sons. If you should take us in, I will give you the rest of my days. I'm sure many of my fellow thralls-"

"Shut up, old fuck," she said to the man who looked about her own age. "When I want a thralls opinion about fucking anything, I will take it from them by force. The fact any of you fucking thralls are here at all means you're mine already. That all you have to offer, girl-boy?"

"No." Rokr walked up behind the old woman. "They have me."

Alfhild froze, then turned. A wild smile stretched her wrinkled face. "It's you."

"Aye, it's me."

She seemed almost giddy as she reached for her axe. "Face me, Odin-Blessed! Let us see who the gods favor more!"

Rokr held up both hands as the axe cut at him, stopping a finger's width from his face. "I don't have a weapon."

"I will provide them. This needs to happen."

"It does," Rokr agreed. "But the fight won't be fair. You'd beat me, but you won't really know who's better."

"Why won't it be fair?"

Rokr gestured toward his shoulder. "I'm wounded, I'm tired. I spent all day killing Ivar's men."

"Rest, then. You can stay. The others can fuck off."

Bester gave a pained looked as the Jarlkona stormed off yelling at some miniscule offense.

"Rokr," Bester walked up to him and tightly gripped his arm. "Thank you, your ships saved us."

The berserker nodded. What did the old man want now?

"I… I saw you fighting. I saw the men you took with you. I've. I've been looking for Maeva, I can't find her."

You don't want to know old man. Rokr tried to look at the thralls eyes, but his gaze drifted to the ground. "She's dead." He watched Bester's feet as he stepped back.

"No," the old thrall wailed. "How?"

"Storm took her," Rokr felt his throat burn at the lie. She died because of him, because of his prayers, and his stupidity. The slave wailed again, Rokr's eyes glanced up and watched as he staggered back clutching at his chest.

"They're dead, all dead. I failed them. I failed them all. I should have stopped them."

Helgi rushed to his side and pulled him into a hug. "You tried, you gave them the best council you could. This isn't your fault."

"No, it is. It is. I'm the one who told Fror… I started all of this. His wife, by the gods what have I done?"

"Where is Fror? Where is Bjorn?" Rokr looked at the two in confusion.

"Both dead," Helgi said as he wiped away his tears. "My Jarl and my beloved went to face Ivar. They never returned, then Ivar attacked us. They must be dead. Bjorn would never have left us to die."

"No," Rokr said. "Ivar thought Fror gave me my orders. Ivar didn't kill him." Then where was he?

"Bjorn isn't dead either," Edla said.

Helgi looked up and rose to his feet. "You!" he clutched at Edla's arms. "You went with them. What do you mean? Where is he? What happened?"

"I-" Edla took a breath. "The attack didn't work. They captured Bjorn, I don't know what happened to Fror."

'They're alive?" Bester nearly sang. "Where is Bjorn?"

"Ivar dragged him into a cell, below his hall and clapped him in chains. I… I don't know what they did, but I could hear the screaming."

"Do you know where they're keeping him?" Helgi stared intently at Edla, his grip on her turned his knuckles white, and Edla squirmed with discomfort.

"Yes."

"We need to go. We need to get him."

Edla looked at Helgi as though he were touched. "No, have you learned nothing of what happens when you face Ivar?"

"I don't care. I need to get him. I need to make sure he's safe."

"You'll die before you make it 10 feet," Rokr said.

"You don't know what's been happening here, Rokr. I've fought in battles. I've trained with the spear."

Rokr shrugged. "For how long? A couple months? Ivar's huskarls have been fighting for years." He looked around the dock. "I'll need an axe, and a shield."

"You're going?"

"Of course. I'm the only one who might be able to do it." I'm sorry, Maeva. May this set you at ease at least. I will save your brother.

"I'm going as well," Bester said.

"No," Helgi said.

"I have loved those boys as though they were my own since the day they were born. I'm going."

"You'll slow us down." And you'll make a mess of any battle I fight.

"I'm going!" the old man glared toward Rokr.

"Fine, but I'm there to save my Jarl's brother. Not to prevent some thrall from being cut down."

"Agreed."

"No, not agreed," Edla said. "I just escaped Harald's Hall. I can't go back."

"You will."

"Fuck you, Rokr. I won't. Bester, Helgi, think of these people. They need you here, protecting them. Alfhild will drive them off and they will die, alone, in the winter. They need you two to lead them."

"Hrmm," Rokr thought for a moment. Then left, leaving the three to argue amongst themselves. He did not need to go far, and it was easy to follow the shrill screams.

"Why are you still here?" Alfhild glared at one of her warriors. "I gave you an order to scout my fields. I need to know right when Ivar brings his troops into my territory. Go! Go! Before I cut off your balls and shove them down your throat! Go!"

The man fled, brushing past Rokr his face pale with fear.

Alfhild's gaze turned to Rokr, and she smiled. "Ahh, my beautiful guest. Are you feeling ready now? I could clear a space for us. Grab the cloak and make this a proper holmganga. It would be a fight the poets would cry themselves over for the next hundred years."

Rokr took a breath, he couldn't rush into this. He needed to calm himself. To think like Fror and speak like Bjorn. "There may not be a holmganga, or a fight at all, Alfhild."

Her smile twisted into a sneer. "And why would that be, Rokr."

"I have a duty. I gave oaths before all the gods. I said I would protect Giermundr, his kin, and his people for as long as he was my Jarl."

"Giermundr's dead. Ivar saw to that."

"Hrmm." He couldn't just tell her to take care of the people. Ahh, things were so much harder when he couldn't hit them. "But Giermundr's kin are still alive. And some of his people."

"What do they matter to us? I've seen you fight, I've felt the gift Odin's granted you myself. The perfect moment, where everything drifts away except you, and your enemy. It doesn't matter what enemy it is." Her eyes unfocused and her mind drifted back to some battle or another.

She knows the draw of the gift. The power that courses through your body when Odin speaks to you. Someone who completely understood him, like no one else Rokr had ever met. Even other berserkers played at the fury and gave the bear chants. They fell into wrath, not ecstasy. But few actually knew the feeling of being blessed by a god. Only he, and the Valkyrie-Born.

"You know me," Rokr said. Bringing them both back to the present. "But you also know more important than life or joy is the will of the gods. I gave my oath."

Alfhild sighed, "Aye, you gave your oath. And what will you be doing about that oath?"

"I have learned that Bjorn is still alive. I will go and rescue him. Then, I will help him find a home for Giermundr's people, as my new Jarl. It is likely we will not last long, since you will not house them. I will probably starve come winter, but that is what my oath commands."

"No," Alfhild shook her head. "No, that's not fair. I have been waiting for this fight for years. I need to fight you Odin-Blessed. I need to know which of us is greater. Which of us holds Odin's true favor."

"I want that too, by the gods, more than anything. But I have a people to look after, as best I can."

"No!" Alfhild took out her axe. Rokr stepped back and raised his hands. _Did I push too far? Fuck._

She drew the blade across her palm. "Here me gods. Odin and Frigga. Thor and Tyr. And all the host of Asgard. I am Alfhild the Valkyrie-Born. And I swear to you today, by sword and spear. By iron and blood. I swear that I will look after Giermundr's people. But when the Odin-Blessed returns we shall fight. May this oath come before all other oaths."

She handed her axe to Rokr. He sliced his palm without hesitation. He barely felt the blade as he stared into the eyes of the mad woman that hunted his people for his entire life. "I swear, by bear and stone. By sea and air. That when I return, we shall fight."


	10. Mission 9: Another Man's War

Fror frowned as the walls appeared over the horizon. "That the place?"

"That it is," the fat man smiled. The pair sat in a small yet far too wide boat, Toshimo refused to use sails for fear of being spotted. Instead eight of Toshimo's servants rowed, several times needing to reverse course to navigate the tangled river. Fror couldn't help but think how much easier the journey would be on one of his own vessels. No Dane would have wasted coin on this waste of wood. Toshimo, however seemed perfectly content with their slow progress. He no longer wore his flowing regalia, replaced with a simple robe. Likely so no one would recognize him, though Fror wondered how many men in Shin Nihon were as fat as he.

Fror sneered as the sailors tried to disentangle the boat from some weeds before deciding once more to row backwards and try a different angle. "Fuck this," he muttered as he headed toward one of the chests below deck and pulled out the rough map of the palace Toshimo had drawn.

"Are you worried about your mission?" The fat man said, the wood of the ladder creaking with each of his steps down.

"You certain he will be here?" Fror indicated the central room.

"He is always there at sundown. He is predictable, the guards will be out of the doors. If all goes well you will be in an out without anyone noticing you."

Slim chance of that, Fror thought. If it would be this easy, Toshimo would have sent one of his own men. He'd heard tales of the Easterners and their unmanly use of assassins to do their killing. It took no great cunning to realize what Toshimo's plan was. If Fror is captured before the murder, he acts as proof that the Viking threat is real and gets reinforcements for his border. If Fror is captured after the kill he gets the same along with his rival killed. And if Fror makes it out? Then he gets one rival killed and proves that Fror may be able to do the same to Ivar, where he can get another opponent killed.

That fat man was clever. Fror had to give him that. The only problem would be if Fror was captured alive here and he announced who gave him the orders. _And all Toshimo would have to do is denounce me as a liar. Fickle friends are those who do not follow the old ways._

"Are you ready for this Fror? Shall we go over the plan again?"

"Head to the north where the wall is low. Climb it, use this passage," he pointed toward a section on the map. "Take the left path. Kill your king and anyone else who gets in my way, return to the passage take the other passage and see where it goes. Then meet back up with you down the river."

Toshimo nodded and scratched at his sleeve. Just as he did when Fror beat him in that coin game, or when they worked out the plan together the first time. The one little crack on the daimyo's otherwise regal demeanor. The fat man may appear stoic and aloof, but it was just an appearance. He watched the man eat enough for a family when going over the plan or scratch his sleeve. Small signs to show the emotions underneath. And now, the daimyo was giving off every sign of his discomfort.

"Here's good," he finally said. His voice as strong as ever, such a fine act. Fror would have to learn it. The crew took them to the coast and helped Fror out of the ship. "We will wait here until tomorrow morning, staying out of sight. If you do not return by then, we will leave. I cannot be seen with you in this."

"I know,"

"May the spirits be kind to you, friend Fror."

Fror nodded and walked into the Emperor's Woods, his weapons tied in a pack by his side along with some climbing equipment and a meal. He jogged through the woods. The palace stood at the edge of the river, west of where Toshimo went ashore. Fror followed the river, far enough from the shore for the trees to disguise him from prying eyes.

He slowed and started to creep as the walls of the palace grew large before him. Far larger than Fror had first thought. If Toshimo's castle was larger than the grandest meadhall, then this palace could house every huskarl and thegn Fror had ever seen, and likely most the slaves as well. As the trees grew sparse, Fror could see people walking beside the wall. Men and women dressed in ornate clothes, trailed by guards with equally ornate armor. Between each group he stopped and hid as he slowly made his way around to the north of the walls.

There, the section of the wall cracked with a few loose looking stone that could be climbed, just as Toshimo said. But he didn't say how high the wall would be. Sweet Frigga by the time he could make the top half the entire guard will have noticed him.

He sat down on the roots of a tree and stared at the wall. The dark. The only way he's have a chance to scale the thing without being seen. And for that to work he needed to know all of it, every snag that could be a problem. _I can put my foot there, which should give me reach to that one stone there. But I'll need to take a leap to get there. Fuck if I miss that, I'm dead._

This is insane.

"Hold it, you see that?" A voice broke Fror's concentration.

"Shit," he muttered, another group of folks wandering about.

"See what?" another voice called. Two guards with long curved spears marched around the palace. One of them broke off from the other and headed toward the trees.

"Fuck." Fror ducked around the tree, and listened to the crunch of the guard's steps and the clank of his armor. He stepped behind a bush and grabbed a branch to hide his features.

"What is it?"

"Hold on," the guard shouted as his face peered around the tree, his narrow eyes roaming around the woods. He stooped low to the ground and peered through a few bushes. Fror set his pack down, and gently lifted the flap. No room to run, if the guard got too close he'd have to kill him.

The second guard appeared from around the tree. "Well tell me what you think you saw, and I'll help."

"Something moving, I think it was a man. Big one."

"Probably a vagabond or something." The man cupped his hands around his mouth. "You hear that?" he shouted into the woods. "Come out, and everything will be fine. We'll just bring you to the road and send you on your way."

Fror reached around the grip of his sword. If they get too close there'd be nothing for it. They could not be allowed to see him. Maybe he could get inside right away? Hide out inside when they discover the guards are missing. Just pray that no one sees him on the wall in full daylight, and no one is atop the wall when he gets there. Sure, that'd work. That's a brilliant cunning plan.

The first guard drew close to his bush. Fror groped through his bag until his grip tightened on something. Shit, that will have to do.

The guard took another step closer, Fror watched his eyes. The guard glanced upward. Now! Fror threw his meal through a small clearing in the bushes. The food whipped aside leaves and branches.

"What was that?" the first guard jumped back.

"I think it was a risu."

"A risu? Heh."

"Well good job there, Sugi, we found a risu."

"All right, fine, fine. Let's keep back to patrol."

"Drove off the geretsuna risu.

"It didn't look like a risu from the road."

Fror relaxed the grip on his sword and loosed the breath he had been holding. The guards marched away joking. Once Fror could no longer see the pair, he stood up and stretched. His stomach growled. He reopened his bag and dug around.

"Shit," he pulled the climbing tools out of the bag. "Shit!" he dumped the contents on the ground. Sighing he looked to the tree he threw his distraction toward. Rice lay scattered over the dirt, with a chunk of meat covered in grass. A small bird pecked at it. Fror swatted at the bird.

threw his meal into the woods. He stooped over and searched for his food. He found scattered rice over the dirt with a few birds and squirrels picking at it. He didn't find any of the meat. Fror muttered to himself as he quietly swiped at the animals to get them away. One of the birds pecked at his hand before flying away with a beak full of rice.

Fror laid down next to his food and started picking at the rice. Picking up the less dirty, occasionally rubbing off the grime on his shirt before shoving the rice into his mouth. When he could stomach no more dirt he turned back to the wall, another pair of guards walked past.

_One more detail to learn. If I'm barely above eye level when guards come I'm dead. _

He sat, this time covered from those walking around the palace and began to count as he studied the wall. One thousand, four hundred ninety-seven he quietly said when the next patrol passed. One thousand, six hundred, eighty-three, he got to the second patrol. The third went in at One thousand, five hundred, fifty-nine.

By the time the third group of guards passed at One thousand, five hundred, fifty-nine the Sun began its descent behind the treeline. Fror tied his weapon back into his pack and picked up the climbing hooks he'd dumped onto the ground.

Right on time a pair of guards walked past. As they walked out of sight, Fror bolted forward. He jumped to the first handholds and pulled himself up. The hooks proved invaluable, able to get a firm grip on spots too tight for his own fingers. One, two, three. He pulled himself up another stone. Three hundred eleven, three hundred twelve. A stone shifted from his weight sending pebbles knocking down the side of the wall. He froze as the pebbles clattered on the way down.

_Four hundred one_, he thought. They shouldn't be coming yet. Just breathe and keep moving. He climbed until his arms were sore and his palm blistered on the hook's handle. As he tried to make a large hook the blister burst and blood dripped down his arm. The hook slipped through his loosened grip and fell.

_Hela take them all!_ One thousand seventy-four. He needed to keep moving. He reached around the stones looking for something to hold. His wet fingers slipping around the stones.

A faint light appeared on the edge of Fror's sight at the base of the wall. Still too low. They're going to see him. Fror took a breath, he wasn't caught yet. He squinted and looked up the wall. There were a few more handholds. Without his hook, not much a chance of getting them. But after that, was where the rubble started.

He heard the murmurs of the guards. He pressed his feet onto the wall and scuttled up until his foot was near the hook. He let go of the hook and stretched himself out. One foot balanced on the hook he reached high. His fingers brushed the very bottom of the rubble.

Fror jumped, empty air around him. His stomach rose into his chest. He reached for the rubble and felt his fingers brush across the rocks. His fingers caught. He sucked in air through gritted teeth as he clawed at the pebbles. His blooded fingers slipped.

_No!_ He pressed his hand against the wall as he started to descend. Hard stone caught his finger and his body went taut. "Auggh!" he screamed as his finger wedged between two stones.

He heard shouting from the ground. They heard him. But they couldn't stop him. He yanked his finger loose of the stones and another shot of pain danced through his hand. More pain when he grabbed more stones and pulled himself another handhold higher. He felt two of his fingers slap against the stones unable to close.

Something clanged into the stones below him. He glanced down, one guard grabbed the spear from the other and held it high as he aimed at Fror. The spear flew. Fror scrambled to the side, and the weapon pierced into the stones by his head.

He reached further and felt the lip of the palace wall. He heaved himself over the wall and swung onto the walkway below. Lanternlight illuminated a few guards heading his direction, obviously drawn by the clamor.

Fror ran down the pathway, tucking his broken finger under his arm. Where to go? Shit, where was the hidden path that Toshimo told him about? _Take a breath Fror. Take a breath and concentrate._ The wall with the strange mark. One of the strange runes of Nihongo etched in stone. He ran past wall after wall, searching for the strange symbol.

Light and shouts drew closer.

A man rounded a corner and shouted, something Fror didn't think to translate. The guard fumbled for his sword. Fror flung his pack at the man, knocking him square in the chest. The guard fell to ground.

There! The sign! Etched small over the heads of any of these Easterners. The guard heaved and tried to stand up. Fror kicked him and felt the man's jaw crack. The guard's head shot back and thumped on the stones. More shouts echoed around the palace. Fror groped around the sides of the wall. Where was it? The latch Toshimo kept mentioning. _Where is it fat man? If you fucked me. I will tell your king everything. Where is it?_

He felt a small metal slab slide. The wall shifted, sending dust raining over him. He pushed the wall with his shoulder and grunted as the stone ground back. Fror glanced down at the unconscious man and sighed.

He grabbed his pack and the man's boot and pulled them into the passage. As the stone wall clicked back into place darkness enveloped him. He fumbled for the straps on his pack and felt to find the lamp and tinder. The spark caught the oil and a dim light illuminated the stone walls.

The unconscious guard groaned. Fror watched the shadows dance around his face as he slowly shook himself awake. Nothing for it then. Fror went back to his pack and picked up his sword and shield. A quick hack at the man's neck and it was done.

Fror wiped the blood off his sword and walked through the corridor. Cursing as his two crooked fingers refised to close around the grip of his shield. Rough unfinished stone pressed against him, at times the walls drew so close together that he had to shuffle through them sideways. No wonder the fat man wanted someone else to do this work for him. Something scampered over his foot and Fror tensed. He angled the lamp down and sneered as a large rat hissed at him. Then he heard another his behind him and the patter of many small claws.

"Get away," Fror kicked at the rodents, sending one flying. More hisses met him as he kept moving forward. He cleared himself a path, occasionally crushing some beneath his feet. He prayed that they couldn't hear their squeals outside the passage.

As he walked a light appeared before him, creating the faint outline of a door. He blew out his lamp, set down his pack, and pressed his ear to the door.

He heard only mumbles, they didn't seem to be too close to the door itself. He found the latch and gently unhooked the door. Slowly, he pushed the door open and peered inside. He blinked as his eyes adjusted to the light, then his mouth dropped in awe. He had never seen such wealth. Cushioned seats and thin cloth of purple and red draped the walls. Then he saw the beds, more than a dozen each with a woman resting on it. Some asleep, but most awake and looking toward the middle of the room.

At the center, a thin wrinkled old man with a long beard lay with two much younger women in his arms. Four men stood over them, two of them clearly dressed as guards with armor and weapons ready. The other two looked odd to Fror. Small, even for Easterners, and wore ornate outfits along with the curved swords at their side.

"Your guard will be tripled tonight," one guard said.

"Yes, yes, but it is not proper for full men to be in here with my sobame. Where are my kangan?"

Fror crept out of the passage and ducked behind one of the lavish beds.

"They are being woken as we speak, your Excellency."

"Then go guard the entrance, it is improper for you to be viewing my sobame."

One of the guards coughed and snapped his attention from the numerous women back to the emperor.

"Out!" the naked old man shouted to the guards.

The two smaller men, drew their blades. The guards bowed and quickly left through the main entrance. Only two to fight, but four more coming soon. He'd have to do this quick. Maybe if he killed one quietly, he could butcher the other before the guards at the door burst through. Risky, but it didn't look like he had a choice.

Fror crawled through the back of the beds. Stealing glances around the edges to make certain that he only passed by the sleeping women while forcing himself to ignore the giggling coming from the central bed with the old man. He came closer to the guards, one of them seemed slightly bigger than the other. That'd be the one he killed first.

He unsheathed his blade and angled it up toward the man's back.

"AAAHHHH!"

Fror's head shot to the side and saw a woman sitting up and screaming. Rats crawling over her blankets and hissed at her.

"AAAAAHHHH!" she screamed again and threw off her covers, rats and all. Fror turned back to his target. It is a disconcerting thing, he discovered when a short man is glaring down at you with a weapon.

"Die! Barbarian!" The man lifted his blade high. Fror thrust his sword forward and pierced into the man's chest. He lifted his blade, ripping through the man's flesh as he blocked the dying man's descending cut. The guard flopped to the ground.

"What is going on?" The naked man propped himself up and pushed one of the women off him. The guard started to run from the other side of the overlarge bed.

Fror's sword slashed again, cutting the emperor from shoulder to hip. The old man died quick, before the other guard made it halfway around the gargantuan bed.

"Emperor!" the door slammed open as several guards pushed into the room, one of whom dressed in dark loose-fitting cloths. Too many to fight. Fror turned and fled back through the hordes of screaming women toward the passage entrance. He ripped open the door and felt the swarm of rats run over his boots.

"Yameru!" an arm grabbed him and tried to pull him out of the passage. Fror turned and hacked at the arm. The man screamed as his arm fell to the ground. Fror kicked the small man to the ground and ran into the passage. He stepped hard and felt the ground slip beneath him.

"Odin's cock!" His sack flew out from under his foot and clattered against his lantern. Fror scrambled to his feet, leaving the pack behind as another figure entered the tunnel. He ran through the darkness, stumbling over the uneven stones and the crunch of rats.

He felt the walls press around his shoulders. He turned to the side and quickly glanced behind him. A slender figure followed, staying low to the ground as he ran. When the tunnel opened back up, Fror sprinted. He passed the corpse and the hidden door he entered. No way he'd make it back out over the walls. He needed to find where the tunnel led.

He felt each step take him lower. He huffed as he ran through the tunnel.

"Fauru!" A sword clanking against the rim of his shield sending his arm forward.

"Get off!" Fror whirled about and jabbed at the small man with his shield. The man stepped to the side to void the blow and slammed into the wall. Fror's shield struck him in the jaw and he staggered backwards. Pain ran up through Fror's arms as his broken fingers struck the inside of his shield. Fror grit his teeth as he took out his sword and lashed where the enemy must of fell. But he struck nothing. He swung quicker, wilder. But all his sword found was the stones on the wall. Fror turned and ran further into the tunnel.

His foot brushed air instead of stone. He slammed his sword hand against the wall to steady himself. As he felt around with his foot. Stairs? He took a tentative step as he took another step down.

Light footfalls sounded behind him. Fror whirled around and lifted his shield. A foot slammed into the shield sending him reeling back. Back to a step that wasn't there.

Fror fell backward, clawing at the air in front of him. His hand caught some cloth and pulled it close. The slight man huffed as they both tumbled down. Bouncing and rolling over the stones. Fror landed on his shield and felt his head smashed against the wood. His legs entangled with something soft. His attacker. He kicked at the man three times hearing a satisfying crack. He pushed off the ground but felt the ground spin. Unable to see he closed his eyes and leaned against the wall.

A shot of pain running up his calf with each step. He must of hurt his foot in the fall.

"Why do you run?" The man's sword slid against the ground. _Was the bastard still up?_ "Coward, foul dog. Satsujin-sha!"

Fror glanced over his shoulder. A lump moved in the darkness, barely noticeable. But it was quicker than him.

He pushed onward. He winced as he stepped. The pain making his knee shake. The stepped more harshly with the next step and the pain nearly made him fall. Again. Harder. Faster. Until he ran, the blazing pain in his leg urging him onward. The ground sloped downward, and the stones turned into dirt. He must be past the palace grounds. It had to be almost over.

He heard the whirl of air behind him and ducked. A sword embedded itself into the dirt walls.

"Fuck!" Fror turned and raised his shield just as a follow-up attack struck.

"I told you to stop running!" The shadow swung the blade again. Fror covered the line of attack, only for the blade to slip down past the shield and slice up.

Fror pushed his shield down, but not fast enough for the blade to make a small cut across his stomach. The dark figure staggered back as the force of the shield knocked his blade low. The shadow stepped back into the darkness.

Fror centered his shield. Frantically searching for some subtle hint where the sword could be in the shadow.

A small movement around the where he thought the lump's shoulder would be twitched. He thrust his shield toward the movement and heard the scratch as the sword sliced across the face of his shield.

Fror thrust forward with his sword. But the man stepped out of reach. Fror stepped to close the distance, but the man moved like a snake. If they fought outdoors Fror didn't know if he could fight him. At least in the corridor, there was only one direction the man could attack from.

He stayed low and started to back away. If he could get out, if he could make it to the ship. Maybe they would help him kill it. _Except, Toshimo doesn't know where the tunnel leads. It could be on the opposite side of the palace._

The man stayed still, until Fror couldn't distinguish between him and the darkness.

"You are trying to flee. Coward." The voice echoed along the stone walls. Fror crept another step back. He heard the scratch of a blade against the rocks.

"Your people enter other's homes, other's territory. You kill, you steal. You hunt the weak and old. You have no honor." The voice seemed distant, but that accursed echo made it difficult to tell. Was the man retreating? Had he hurt him? He took another step back.

A light tap from the ground. Fror's eyes shot down and lowered his shield. The sword scrapped along the metal rim and slid low. The blade pierced into his thigh.

"Die, pig."

His shield pushed down, Fror howled as the edge cut up through his flesh to free itself from his body. The dark shape of the man rose, the length of the sword repositioning for another strike. Fror lunged forward, almost falling. He placed his full weight behind his shield, the sword twisted aside as he landed on the smaller man. His sword caught between his shield and the stones. A loud snap echoed as the pressure on his shield dissolved.

The blade clattered to the ground. The easterner stumbled back and shouted something too quickly for Fror to translate.

"Shut up," Fror stabbed at the darkness. He felt his sword pierce flesh. The man scrambled back. Not dead yet. Shit. Fror took a labored step toward his enemy and felt a pulse of blood squeeze out of his new leg wound.

He needed to go, before any of the slower guards got to him. He started to limp back out toward the supposed exit. Once certain the small Easterner didn't follow him further. He leaned against the wall and grabbed onto this wounded leg. He felt the hot blood between his fingers. Too much blood. Shit. He needed to keep going.

But with each step his leg hurt worse and his eyes grew heavier. He struggled step after step. Swearing and trying to hold his wound closed.

"Fuck," he spat as he kicked something hard, and the pain passed through his leg. He reached down to try and feel out the obstruction. A huge clump of dirt. He tried to push it aside, but it didn't budge. He kept feeling around the dirt. He reached around the back and jammed his fingers into something.

He yanked his hand back and shook it. _What is this?_ He held his palm open and placed it on the dirt and slowly moved forward. _No. Toshimo, you fat fuck_. The dirt rose into a wall with the thick roots of a tree keeping it together. _That's it then. Nowhere to go but back. And they'll kill me. Probably before I can tell them about Toshimo._

He sat, with his back to the wall. He couldn't say he didn't deserve this. The Deceiver got deceived. Dying alone in some foreign land. Not a jarl, no leader of thegn or freemen.

How had it come to this? He killed one man, one man who deserved it. After what he did to Megana, what he made Megana do. Is this how the gods chose to punish him? They take his warriors, kill his sister, his brother, and doom his people. All just to punish him. "Then fine. Take me." He rested the back of his head against the dirt.

The wall shifted.

A clump of dirt rolled down his shoulder. How thick is this wall? Fror slammed his elbow into the wall and felt it shake from the force. He stood up on shaking feet and grabbed at the dirt. How far back were the guards? How much time did he have?

He grabbed chunks of mud and dirt and threw it back over his shoulder, while slamming it with arms and shoulders. The wall shook but held together.

The tree. The fucking tree roots. He felt around for the largest of the roots and brushed aside the dirt and twigs until he could get a firm grip and pulled. He strained his arms and grunted. The root refused to budge.

Fror unsheathed his father's sword. A fine blade, the best gift Giermundr ever gave him. He rubbed the edge of the blade, sharp and thin. The swirling pattern he'd seen since a boy etched in his mind. A blade meant to cleave through flesh, not to hack at wood.

Nothing for it. Fror sliced at the root by rubbing the blade along the root, attempting to save the edge as much as he could. The first chunk of the root fell to the ground taking a small section of the dirt with it.

He rubbed sweat from his brow. A faint light shown behind him in the tunnel. The other guards drew close. He tried to slice through the next section of roots. No. This is taking too long. Shit.

Fror lifted his blade and hacked at the roots. With his free hand he grasped at the wood and pulled back with each piece that he cleaved free. Chunks of wood, dirt, and stones flew out with each strike. With a crack the final chunk of the root broke free and collapsed on the tunnel floor. Dirt flew into Fror's eyes and mouth.

He rubbed the muck aside and blinked his eyes open. The wall of dirt crumbled, and through the small hole Fror saw the most beautiful things he'd ever seen. Dark trees and wild brushes.

Fror pushed his shield into the hole. Scraping dirt and pebbles aside he widened the hole enough to force his body through. The mud clung to his hair and rubbed across his face. Pebbles scraped across his shoulders and arms.

He groaned as his torso slipped through the hole. Placing his hands on the side of the hole he pushed. His hips and legs slid out with a wet slurp. His aching body slumped over into the grass. Gods he wanted to sleep or a drink. He looked back through the hole, the guard's lamplight was much larger than it had been.

Couldn't stay here. He needed to move. Fror groaned as he stood and took a moment to observe the hole. If they catch him, it didn't matter what equipment he had, he'd be dead. Best to slow them down as well as best he could.

Fror wedged his shield into the hole and scooped some of the dirt to cover the gaps. That should take them a few moments to figure out. He lurched into the forest, dragging his wounded leg behind him clutching at the wound with his good hand. He should be hiding his tracks. Shit, he'd be leading the guards right to Toshimo. If they found him, that'd be the end of his support to defeat Ivar.

He grabbed a tree and straightened himself and tried to gingerly step with his wounded leg.

"Fuck!" he shouted and gripped his ankle. "Fuck!" he shouted again and immediately let it go. In the starlight he finally got a chance to examine his wounds. His ankle had swollen to the size of a melon. He leaned against the tree and tried to calm his spasming leg.

Alright no way to hide his tracks, except one. Fror limped toward the riverbed. The river was thin and didn't look to have too hard a stream. Back home, he'd be able to swim through this in a single breath. Of course, he'd have both of his legs and hadn't scaled a fucking palace and murdered an emperor.

Fror wrapped his sword over his shoulder and dived into the water. The frigid water chilled him to the bones. With strained muscles he pulled himself forward. He attempted to kick, and the pain shot through his body. He opened his mouth to shout and swallowed water.

He coughed beneath the waves but did not stop swimming. He dragged his near useless legs behind him. He breached the water to grab some air and glanced toward the shore. Almost there. He ducked down beneath the surface. The strap for his sword dragged across his neck, and nearly choking him.

His fingers brushed against seaweed. He pushed his hand low and touched ground. A few more strokes and his stomach brushed the mud.

He scrapped and cussed his way up until he rest on the riverbed. The top of his head poking out of the water. On the shore behind him he saw various lights moving through the trees and down by the shore. Too far away to see him in the night with those lamps and torches burning right in their eyes.

With a deep breath he crawled out of the water, immediately the night air chilled his entire body once more. Shivering he staggered through the woods down the river. He moved until the sun shined overhead. Finally, he saw the small boat partially hidden behind a few stones, back on the other side of the river.

Fror moved to the shore, open for everyone to see. He waved at the ship and tried to stand tall. _Please, don't let anyone else see me. Please._

The ship didn't move. _Fuck it. Please, if they don't see him they're going to leave him behind_. He waved some more and tried jumping to make himself more visible. One jump nearly made him topple over.

Nothing for it. He shouted to them. One of the men on the deck pointed toward him and the boat pulled out of its makeshift dock. Fror moved back toward the woods for protection, until the ship safely touched ashore.

Fror took a quick look around. No guards nearby. It was over, he was finally safe. Fror stepped out of his hiding spot onto the beach. The fat man immediately leaped off the boat, with a quickness that Fror did not think possible.

"Is it over? Did you do it?"

"He's dead."

Toshimo's grin spread wide and his eyes sparkled. _This is it. Will he hold up to his bargain or kill me now? It'd clean up his end in the matter. _

The fat man stepped closer then grabbed Fror and pulled him into an embrace. "You look terrible. Come, get below deck. We have much to discuss."

Two sailors flanked Fror and lead him to the boat. One grabbed his arm and Fror started to lean heavily on the man. This wouldn't do. A jarl doesn't show this kind of weakness. He struggled to stand up straight, only for his leg to buckle beneath him. The other sailor quickly caught him and propped him up between them.

"Friend Fror, do not struggle," Toshimo said. "Rest, you've done the impossible. All your ills will be taken care of."

He wanted to say something strong. Something Giermundr would have said. 'A jarl carries his own burdens' or 'a Dane relies on no one.' But when he opened his mouth nothing came out. The sailors carried him to the boat and hoisted him over the edge. Toshimo himself took hold of him and carried him below the deck, as if he weighed no more than a child.

"There, rest now," Toshimo placed him on a cot and shouted orders for one of his men to see his wounds. "Look at your legs, both your legs. And your fingers! What happened?"

"Fought some of the guards, a short, quick man."

"You fought Masaheide?"

Fror shrugged.

"Did you kill him?"

"Managed to fight him off, but I doubt it."

"Pity. Having him gone would have been even better for me."

"So what now? Do you become emperor?"

"Hah," Toshimo grabbed a plate of food that one of the servants brought to him. He held it out for Fror to take from. "Thirsty?"

"Of course," he snapped to another servant. The man ran off to the back and returned with a cup full of wine he brought to Fror's lips.

"No, I won't become emperor. That will be the one of the sons of the man you killed. I will choose a weak man, easy to manipulate. Especially when they hear about the next part of our plan."

"So, you will be helping me kill Ivar then."

"Of course. And when I bring them the news that the vile foreign king that sent assassins to kill our beloved emperor is dead."

"You'll use it to gain more power."

The fat man smiled, pleased with his own cunning. "So, king killer, are you up to the task once more?"

"I'll have to."

"Yes, you do. For both of our plans to continue. But now, rest, friend Fror. You'll need to stay below deck until we make it to my home. No doubt word of the Northern Assassin will spread through Shin Nihon."

"Believe me, I have no intention of leaving this bed." Fror let his head fall back into the cushions. Toshimo laughed and continued to talk about his grand designs. He liked hearing himself talk. Fror should have listened, but instead he pulled out the sword hanging around his neck. The fat man kept talking as though he had a captive audience.

The sword came loose of its sheath, a bit of caught water splashed down on Fror's chest. He dropped the sheath and tried to focus on the sword in his shaking hand. Scratches and notches lines both sides of the blade. One side had a large crack where he must have struck stone. No length of time with a whetstone would fix the blade. His father's sword was ruined.

His arm went limp to his side and the sword clattered on the floorboards. The last thing he held of his family, destroyed. He was alone.

Edit: So here's the thing. I know a bit about Viking and Medieval Christian cultures. I have never really cared about medieval Japan. So I don't have a lot to draw on. Considering the next group of missions is supposed to be Samurai based. Any works that delve into Samurai culture that could be brought to my attention would be appreciated. I also apologize to anyone who speaks Japanese. I clearly don't.


	11. Mission 10: Prison Break

Helgi's leg bounced as they waited, causing the leaves of the tree to shake. Rokr grabbed his knee and held his leg down.

"If you don't stop that, I will cut this leg off."

"Sorry," Helgi's leg stopped the idiotic bouncing.

Rokr released his grip and turned to watch the city beneath Harald's Hall. "And breath down, into the snow. We don't want anyone to see your breath." Guards baring longaxes moved around the wall and held the main gate. No easy way in.

The leaves shook, again, creating that annoying scratching noise. Rokr took a breath and looked at his companion. Helgi's leg bounced seemingly faster than before. His eyes wide and face pale.

How the fuck is this ergi part of his forces? And how the fuck is he not the worst warrior here? An old thrall, some farmer's daughter, an ergi, and a merchant. Fror couldn't break the hall with actual huskarls at his side!

Rokr tightened his grip on his axe. It'd be so easy to just cut the weakling dead, right here. He could do it quick. In a way that won't create any more noise. It'd probably be less noticeable then the one moving bush right in front of the guard's nose.

_Odin, please, give me patience with this fool. Bjorn likes him for some fucking reason. Can't kill him. _

Rokr took a deep breath and tapped the flat of his axe against his companion's knee.

"Sorry," Helgi said, a bit louder than he should.

Rokr glared at him. Helgi's face turned red and he looked down.

Fucking useless.

"There," Bester tapped Rokr on the shoulder and pointed toward the gate. Two familiar faces walked out of the gates, Halfdanr smiled and nodding to the guards.

"Hrmm," Rokr moted to a crouch. "We head to the meet. Try not to warn every guard in the town we're here, Helgi."

"Sorry."

Rokr grunted and lead the pair, keeping low until they were far out of the guard's vision. They ran through farming fields for a few miles, until they reached the river and the boat tucked behind snow covered bushes. A man and woman leaned on its side muttering to each other.

"Oy," Halfdanr waved, when the three drew close. "Anything on your end?"

"Nothing useful," Rokr nodded to the Halfdanr and Edla. "Each gate is guarded. Maybe you and I could scale a section of wall. But no way for these three."

Halfdanr frowned. "Figured as much." He smiled to Helgi and Bester. "Pity you didn't join us on the Viking. Those months of fighting and rowing would make anyone fit as Rokr."

"Hrmm," Rokr rubbed his thumb over the top of his axe. "Not even close, merchant."

Halfdanr smirked. "Well, we got our part down. Edla showed me the building."

"Any sign of Bjorn?"

"Sorry Helgi, no."

"I told you, he's stuck in the middle," Edla said. "And it's crawling with guards. I don't see how we're getting in."

"Wait a bit," Bester said. "We'll think of something. But, now we need to get in."

"We'll need a cart," Rokr muttered.

"What you thinking?" Halfdanr asked.

"Maeva told me about how you talked through that first village we hit."

"I talk fast and try to smuggle you in?"

"Aye. Might need to hide me somewhere. Ivar and his huskarls saw me, know my face."

"Should be easier pretending to be a merchant than trying to convince a group of guards that a ship full of Vikings were there peacefully."

"The fuck did you do on that raid?" Edla looked at the two of them.

"Risked my life every day, but it made me a warrior."

"Ehh," Rokr shrugged. "It made you little less shit in a fight."

"I think I can get us a wagon." Bester handed out a wineskin to each of them. "My contacts in Harald's Hall should have one."

"How long?"

"He lives on the outskirts of the town. Shouldn't take too long."

Rokr nodded and downed the rest of his wineskin. "Then we go."

Halfdanr and Edla quickly wolfed down their food and drinks before they rushed to Rokr's side. Bester and Helgi headed toward the road.

"Oy," Rokr called. The two men turned to him.

"Not on the road." Fucking useless thralls. Rokr, Halfdanr, and Edla headed toward the farmlands. Within moments Bester and Helgi met back with them. The old man already breathing heavy from his moment of running.

_Freyja, don't let this old man die before he gets us that cart. _

They walked at Bester's pace through the fields. Only running when they needed to cross open roads or the gaps between fields. They reached a small home with a barn behind it. A man with a thick red beard and wild hair sat on a pile of hay in front of his home, his body waved unsteadily. A wineskin at his lips to match the flasks, and broken barrels strewn around him.

"Who's that, there?" the man hickuped as they drew close.

"Skarde? Is that you?"

"'Course it is. Who's you?"

"Your brother," Bester walked up to the man, and held his arms open for an embrace.

"Njal?" The drunk squinted at Bester.

"Njal's dead."

"Bester?"

"Yes, little brother. What happened to you?"

The drunk stumbled toward Bester, taking another swig from his wineskin. He moved until they were close enough to embrace, and punched Bester in the face.

Rokr dived on the dunk and felt the impact bounce Skarde's head on the ground. The drunk thrashed beneath him, flailing his arms at Rokr's shoulders and ribs. Rokr slammed his head into Skarde's chin. The man went limp. Rokr shifted his body and wrapped his arms around the drunk's neck.

"Don't hurt him!" Bester rushed to Rokr with blood dripping down his nose. He pulled at Rokr's arm.

"Why? He disrespected you."

"What is respect to a thrall? He's my brother. Stop. Please."

Rokr loosened his grip. The drunk rolled out of Rokr's hold, coughing and clutching at his throat.

"Brother," Bester kneeled and wrapped his arm around Skarde's shoulders. "Brother, what happened?"

"You did. You and the Giermundrssons. You ruined everything." He wept, clinging to Bester's arms. "They took everything."

"Skarde, where's your son?"

"He's gone. You took away my son."

"What happened?"

"The day the Geirmundrssons came, Regni went to work. Neither of us knew. You didn't tell me. All these years I've been here. I've told you everything I've heard. I sent my son to work for the king instead of staying safe in my farm, just like you asked. You didn't warn us."

"I couldn't let a messenger know what was about to happen. I'm sorry."

"Sorry? Will sorry bring my son back?

"No." Bester looked nearly as broken as the drunk. Tears formed in his eyes, as he blinked them away. "Where is he buried? I should at least pay my respects."

"I don't know! Nobody knows. No one's seen him since that day. When I heard of the fighting in Harald's Hall I prayed to all the gods I knew for his safety. He didn't come home. I went into town myself, I looked through the hall and saw the stains from the blood. I asked where the bodies were kept, so I could take him home. But he wasn't there. Every day I wandered the city. I begged for any news of him. I groveled before the warriors. I lowered myself before Ivar himself. No one knew anything. My son is gone."

Bester looked to Rokr and the others. Rokr shrugged. What did he expect him to do about it? There was a fight, people died. It's sad that some boy got caught up in it. But that happens in every fight.

Edla went to the man and kneeled in front of him and held out her hand. "I'm so sorry this happened to you."

"What do you know about it," the drunk snapped and pushed her hands away.

"I lost my family in this as well. It feels horrible. My sisters. When I think what those trolls did to my sisters." She shuddered. "I- I can't imagine what it would be like to lose your own child."

The drunk continued to wail and rocked his body on the ground. What was he supposed to do with this? They needed to get the wagon and move. Rokr looked to Halfdanr and Helgi and saw that both men had tears in their eyes.

"Hurry this up."

"Don't be such a bastard," Edla gave him a foul look before returning to comfort Skarde.

When did this happen? He was the Odin-Blessed. He was the first to kill a Christian on the first true Viking of the southern lands in over a hundred years. Now thralls and freedmen can just insult him without fear of his gift.

"He's not wrong," Halfdanr said. "We can't stay out here, and the longer we wait the worse we'll be. And I don't want to give Alfhild time to get bored and do something with the rest of our people."

Edla scowled at the pair of them, but Bester nodded. He grabbed Skarde's elbow and helped in to his feet. Bester and Edla half-carried the drunk into his small home.

The home looked barely larger than a room. A small firepit in the middle and hay stacked as beds in the corner and rubbish scattered across the floor. Rokr gagged when he took his first breath. It smelled of spoiled mead, rotten meat, and shit.

"Maybe inside was a bad idea," Helgi picked up a wineskin and a broken plate off the ground. He looked about and sighed. He set his jaw and walked to a seeming random corner of the room and started to place all the filth there.

"Brother," Bester wrapped Skarde in his arms. "I am so sorry what happened to Regni. He was a good man."

"He wasn't a man, yet. He was only a boy. My poor boy."

"Bester," Rokr said. "Time."

The old thrall sighed. "Skarde?"

"What?"

"I-" he looked to Rokr. "I can't do this."

"Skarde," Helgi put down the rubbish. "Skarde, are you certain Regni is dead?"

"Of course, he is, he has to be, he would have been home. He should be home."

"Do you know where we're going?"

"No."

"We're breaking into Ivar's cells. When Bjorn attacked many of the men involved were captured and brought there."

"I know. I could I heard their screams, when I went looking for my son."

Helgi visibly shuddered. "But you never found him."

"No. I never got to say the words and make the offerings. I never got to see him."

"What if he's still alive."

"Helgi," Bester hissed.

"What if he got involved. Your son sent information about Ivar to you and from you to Bester. Perhaps he fought with him. What if he was captured with our men?"

The drunk looked up, his eyes red and tears dripping down his cheeks. "What?"

"Your son may still be alive. And we will help you get him," Helgi held his hand out to Skarde. He clutched the hand and drew it to him and stood up on shaking legs.

"Bester?" he whimpered.

"Yes, brother?"

"Do you think it's true? Can my son be alive?"

Bester hugged Skarde and drew his head to his shoulder. As the man shuddered in his arms, the old thrall looked to Helgi. Anger filled his eyes and his lips curled into a sneer. Helgi lifted his chin and held the gaze.

"I think he is," Bester said. His jaw set. "I think your son is in Ivar's cells. And when we get in we will free him. But we need your help."

"What- what do you need?"

"Your wagon and some of your crops, if you have any to spare."

"Everything I have. Everything. Just bring my son back to me."

"We will, Skarde. I- I promise you."

Rokr and Halfdanr found the wagon behind Skarde's home and hitched it to two horses from the barn. Edla gathered barrels filled with vegetables. When they finished putting everything in place, Bester and Helgi left the home. Bester took a spot at the front, and Helgi crawled onto the back where Rokr laid down, hidden beneath the barrels and by their equipment.

"Good work," Rokr said as the wagon began to move.

"I feel sick."

Rokr narrowed his eyes. What is he supposed to say to that? "Why?"

"I just lied to a father in mourning. I gave him hope, where there is none."

"So?"

"What do you think he'll do, when we come back without his son?"

"Attack us, likely."

"No, Rokr, that's what you'd do." Helgi wiped tears from his eyes. "He's broken, I gave him a last little hope, and I'm going to take it away from him. I- I don't think men can survive that."

"How do you know?"

"Because, if Bjorn is dead. Then… I'll know what it's like to have the last bit of false hope taken from you." Helgi's hand clutched at the handle of the dagger on his side. His hand shook nearly as bad the drunks.

"Hrmm."

"Oy, back there. Quiet, now." Halfdanr said.

The wagon slowed to halt. "I haven't seen you before. What's your business?" an unfamiliar voice said.

"Bean merchant," Halfdanr said.

"And where you from?"

"A bit west of here."

"West, huh? And you still had beans? After Ivar's army went through that way?"

"Aye, spot of luck for me. Your boys just missed me. And well, now that the towns that usually take my wares are a bit short on silver, I figured. Might as well head to Harald's Hall. Every man here worth his stones took loot. Perhaps they'll want to spend some of it on my beans."

"Smart man. Alright, I'll need to inspect your cargo."

Shit.

"I'm running a bit late. You don't suppose you could just let me through."

"No, I don't suppose I could. Now, if you don't mind. Can you have your man there open up the back."

Helgi grabbed onto Rokr's arm, his eyes wide with worry. He opened his mouth, but a fierce glare from Rokr and he shut it again. Rokr wrenched his arm away from Helgi and grabbed his axe.

"Would this change your mind?"

"That's… huh. That's a lot."

"It is, and you seem a clever man. You could make use of it."

"What you got hidden back there?"

"Nothing but beans, and my precious time. Which you are wasting."

"Alright, alright. Get on in."

"Pleasure doing business with you. And if you are interested in the finest selection of beans in Daneland, please come visit me at the market tomorrow." Halfdanr called and the horses started moving again.

"Why are you trying to sell beans we don't have?" Rokr propped himself up and looked at the back of Halfdanr's head.

"Quiet you're supposed to be beans."

"You could have gotten us out quicker. I think Helgi nearly pissed himself."

"I did not."

"Both of you, hush. Oh, and Rokr, you will be paying me back for that bribe."

"What? No. Fuck you, merchant."

"You're all insane," Edla laughed. "How can you joke right now?"

"Who's joking?" Halfdanr asked. "Rokr will be paying me back."

"Over my dead body, merchant."

"Edla," Bester cut off Halfdanr's response. "Which way are we going?"

"It's a bit further to the north."

"What's the plan then?" Halfdanr asked. "I don't think we can stop our wagon next to the building and just wait. We either need to rush in as soon as we stop. Or hide the wagon somewhere and sneak closer."

"You think these three could sneak a distance without getting caught?" Rokr waved at Edla, Bester, and Helgi. "I doubt Bester's knees could bend low enough to hide."

"Fuck you," Edla crossed her arms.

"So, we rush in then?"

"My axe is our best weapon. We use it."

Halfdanr nodded. "I guard your right, and have these three behind us?"

"Aye."

"Well, you boys can have fun with that."

"What? Where are you going?" Helgi asked.

"I'm not going in there. I'm not a warrior. Bjorn is-" she frowned. "He's a good man. Better than most. But, I'm not going to be the first face he sees."

"So where are you going?"

"I'm not going anywhere. I'll stay with the wagon. You rush in and get him back to me, and we ride out."

Bester nodded. "That could work."

"'Cept, if the guards come running and see you in the wagon alone."

"Yeah, well, I'll deal with that myself."

Halfdanr looked to Rokr. "Well?"

"This will work." Rokr rummaged through their equipment and grabbed what he figured they needed. "Here," he passed the weapons and shields out. "Use the spear to attack around me and Halfdanr. If the enemy gets too close, drop them and take the dirks. Takes some training to use a spear short, you want to take the dagger and just do whatever you can to kill. Hear?"

"Got it," Helgi took the weapons, his hands shaking. "I'm coming, love," he shut his eyes and took a deep breath.

"We're almost there. Take the reins," Halfdanr slid into the back of the wagon beside Bester and Helgi. He took out a shield and slipped it out of the leather covering. "I hope you don't mind. But I think you should take this one." He handed the shield to Rokr.

"Hrrmm?" Rokr looked down at the familiar shield, with Giermundr's colors freshly painted. "Maeva?"

"You're going to save her brother. I think she'd want you to have it."

Rokr's hand swept over the shield. "Thank you."

He always wanted this shield. Four sections of black and orange with two orange ravens on the black segments. He remembered when Giermundr handed it to Maeva at the end of her sixteenth winter. He knew what it meant even then, when he was barely a boy.

Giermundr's home would go to his sons. His sword would go to his eldest. But his love, his symbol of power. That he gave to Maeva. Giermundr loved her above all. Bjorn hugged her and asked to have a chance to hold the shield. But Fror had given her a small smile and stayed back.

And how she moved with it. The shield danced when she used it. On the few skirmishes against Alfhild she stood next to Giermundr. The emblem of her shield always at the front of the fight. The symbol of Giervedt itself.

And Rokr fought at her side. Killing more than her. Fighting harder than her. Yet, Giermundr never saw him in the same light. Giermundr only saw him as a tool, not the symbol of his power like Maeva.

"Rokr?" Helgi touched his shoulder.

"Hrmm?"

"You're… uhh." He pointed toward his eyes. Rokr touched his cheeks and felt the wetness.

"You-"

"I'm fine." Rokr wiped his eyes. "How close?"

"'Round the corner. You ready?"

"Hrmm." Rokr pushed Helgi's hand off his shoulder and pulled his bear hood over his head. He gripped the shield's handle. It felt firm in his hand.

Bester patted Rokr's arm. "Whatever happens," the old thrall said. "I'm proud of you, Rokr."

"Hrmm?" he looked at the wizened old face.

"Go!" Edla shouted as the wagon stopped.

Rokr pushed open the back doors and leaped down. Two guards, mouths agape, stood with their spears resting against their shoulders. Rokr leaped on the nearest, his axe biting into the man's neck as his weight slammed into the man's torso. Blood spurt into Rokr's face. As the guard hit the ground, the force pushed his axe through the last of the sinews of the man's neck. The guard's head rolled to the side.

"Help!" The other guard screamed. Halfdanr's shield pinned the guard's spear to the side and hacked at him with his sword. The blade pierced into the man's shoulder.

"Help me! They're going to kill-"

A spear thrust into the guard's mouth, turning the scream into a wet gurgle. The guard went limp and Helgi shook the corpse off his spear.

"Good work," Halfdanr smiled to Helgi. "After you, Odin-Blessed."

"He screamed, more will be coming," Bester said.

"Hrmmph," Rokr got to his feet, kicking the guard's head out of his way. He pushed at the door. "Fuck."

"What?" Helgi rushed to his side and pushed at the door. "No. No. It's locked."

Edla laughed from the wagon. "Oh gods. We're all going to get ourselves killed because we can't open a door."

"Hrrm." Rokr lifted his axe and slammed it into the door. Two strikes and Halfdanr slamming his shield into the door and it came loose. Only the light through the door lit up the room and the stairs that headed down.

Rokr ran down the stairs. A small lamp lit four cells and a man standing with a longaxe.

"Who are you? What's happening? What's going-"

Rokr threw his axe. It embedded in the man's head. The guard froze, one hand reached up toward the axe, clutching at the handle. Then he fell to the ground, his limbs shaking.

"Rokr?" a familiar voice, weak and ragged sounded from one of the cells.

"Bjorn!" Helgi ran past Rokr toward the bars.

"Helgi?" a scarred hand reached out and clutched Helgi's hand. "What are you doing here?"

"We're getting you out." Bester took the keys from the guard's belt and ran as quick as his old legs could carry him to the door. After a moment he found the right key and the door creaked open.

Helgi ran to Bjorn's side. "What have they done to you?"

"Nothing to worry about, love. Bester, open the other cells. We'll need Alif, and these others."

Bester unlatched another cell, and a jaunt warrior stumbled out.

"Giertved?" Alif grabbed at Bester's shirt. "What happened to Giertvedt?'

"Halfdanr, help Alif, and move."

"Aye, Odin-Blessed." Halfdanr sheathed his sword and propped Alif up from under the arm.

"What happened to Giertvedt?"

"It's alright. We'll tell you when we get out of here."

"We failed. Fror gave us a task and we failed. You have to tell me what happened to Giertvedt."

"Oy! What about us? Free us!" a voice shouted from one of the cells. Rokr looked to Bjorn.

He nodded. "Enemies of Ivar."

"Hrmm." No time to do this proper. Rokr took the keys from Bester's hand and tossed it into the cell. "Best hurry." The men in the cell shouted and scrambled for the ring of keys.

Rokr lead the way up the stairs and out the building. The view of the streets filled with the colors of men and steel.

"They all came, I saw them. They all came and killed the guards." Edla shouted. A ring of five men in armor surrounded the wagon. _Edla, you bitch. What are you doing?_

"They all came and it was so fast. I couldn't do anything. Wait there they are!" She pointed over their shoulders at Rokr.

_Fuck you, Edla_.

The guards turned in unison toward Rokr.

"It's him," one of the guards shouted and lowered his shield. "It's-" The head of a spear erupted from his nose and split his face in two. He slumped to the ground. Revealing Edla behind him holding onto the shaft of the weapon.

"Well, don't just stand there. Kill them!" Edla shouted as she tried to push the dead guard off her spear.

"You fucking whore!" one of the remaining guards turned and hacked at her. The girl jumped back nearly falling out of the wagon.

Rokr screamed, his axe whirled as he slammed his weapon into a guard's neck. Blood spurt out of the wound as Rokr ripped the blade out. The dying man tried to clutch at his ruined throat. As though his hands could somehow hold his life together.

Rokr smashed his shield into the dying man's side knocking him into the man beside him. The smell of blood, sweat, and iron surrounded him, and his mind drew back and revealed Odin's plan. A spear and sword flung at him from both sides. He jumped back as the weapons slipped past him, the spear dragging across his bearskin and cut a thin line through the hide.

He roared and jumped at the swordsman, his axe aimed toward the enemy's head. The swordsman lifted his shield barely in time to stop the blow. Rokr slid his weapon up slightly until it hooked along the top of his opponent's shield and pulled down. The man staggered as his shield ripped free from his hands.

Rokr lifted his axe up and cut him from hip to shoulder. His dying screams sent directly to the god's ears. More. More to kill. Odin demands it.

The other guard screamed and thrust his spear again. Too angry. Too heavy. Rokr dipped below the weapon and ran. The guard didn't have the time to move out of the way as Rokr's axe took him in the stomach.

One more for old One-Eye! One more! He turned to the last guard, only to see Bester standing over the man he had knocked over earlier with his dirk bloody.

No that wouldn't do. More, he needed more to kill. More! Rokr stepped toward the old thrall that had taken his kill. His blade raised. But it felt heavy. He watched as the old man huffed.

"Rokr!" a voice called. "Rokr! Get in the wagon." A hand grabbed him on the shoulder. He whirled around his axe stopping a finger's width from Helgi's throat. The man gulped. "We need to go," his voice quivered.

Yes. The voice of Odin sounded. Yes. More will come for the wagon. The fighting is not done yet.

Rokr pulled himself into the wagon. Two bleeding men laid down beside him, with Helgi hovering over one whispering something. Two weak men, they'd slow them down. Why would they need these two half dead men?

The woman shouted, and the wagon lurched forward. Rokr held the side of the wagon to steady himself and watched out through the back in the hopes of more to kill. Odin did not want these people with him to die. And Rokr would not question the All-Father.

"Get out of the way," someone yelled from the front. The entire wagon rocked as a wheel rolled over something and slammed back into the ground. A moment later Rokr saw a man in a pool of blood, his torso crushed, and his arms and legs spasming.

"Horses!" a man shouted. "Horses!"

"I see them!" the woman shouted. The wagon swerved, Rokr clutched at the side.

"Is that, Edla?" a weak voice asked.

"Yes," the ergi said.

"What is she doing here?"

They voices continued talking but Rokr blocked them out. The gods spoke in his ears, why would he care for the speech of mortals? And how the gods spoke. They warned him where to look. As he turned his eyes two men on horseback with axe and spear raised appeared from behind a building. They hollered as they chased toward the wagon. Their weapons gleaming in the sunlight.

"Spear!" Rokr shouted and tucked his axe into his belt. He held out his hand. They were supposed to put a spear in his hand. Where were they? The enemy was right there. He needed to kill them. He needed- Ahh, there it is. He squeezed his hand around the shaft and took aim.

The spear sailed through the air as a beautiful bolt, the prayers to the gods made manifest. Rokr smiled as it embedded itself into the spearman, the force knocking him off his horse and into the dirt. Was he dead? He was probably dead. But how was Rokr to be sure? They needed to go back, so he could kill him. He needed to kill him. But that would bring these weaklings into danger.

Rokr felt the foam in his mouth dribble down his chin. "Spear!" he called again. The people behind him placed another in his hand. He hurled the spear at the other horseman. It perfectly soared through the air, right toward the man's throat. Only his shield reached up at the last moment, and the weapon struck wood instead of flesh.

"Odin-Blessed!" the horseman screamed and kicked his horse further. "I'm coming. I'll kill you. I have you!"

_No. This welp won't be killing me._ "Spear!"

The man raised his shield anticipating of the next spear. Pointless. The horse screeched as the spear pierced through its chest and shot through its leg. It collapsed, throwing the warrior from its back. He landed in the dirt face first, his back twisting over his head his neck snapped from the force.

"More!" Rokr stomped his feet. "More for the All-Father!"

Screams came from the front of the wagon. Men crawled along the front reaching for the reins. The merchant swatted at them with his sword, but he bled, and there were many.

"Die!" Rokr screamed and pulled himself forward over the half-dead men and the ergi. "Die! Die!" He swung his axe and took the first at the neck. He leaned over the front seat. The enemy crawled about at odd angles as they tried to swarm the wagon. The next tried to kick at him, but his blade slammed into his foot, the boot tore down the middle along with the foot inside.

The man screamed and fell back out of the wagon. Another four warriors in full mail hauberks and steel plated helmets rode close and jumped onto the wagon from both sides. Rokr's axe struck one in the shoulder, as he pulled himself up onto the front seat. He screamed but kept coming.

"Fuck you!" Rokr slammed the weapon down once more toward his unprotected fingers. The man pulled his hand back as the blade pierced into the wood of the wagon. Ivar's man punched Rokr in the mouth, sending him falling back.

"I'll kill you this time, Odin-Blessed," the man said as he pulled his longaxe form his shoulders.

"Get him out of here!" the woman screamed as she pulled at the horses.

The merchant turned to see the new warrior and hacked at him with his blade. It harmlessly scrapped down his armor. Behind the merchant another of the riders reached out.

"Die!" Rokr screamed. No, that wasn't what he needed to say. He needed to tell him. To warn him. The merchant. The merchant was important.

The man on the horse thrust forward with his spear. The blade pierced through the merchant's arm, splashing blood across the wagon.

"Oh," Halfdanr looked at his wound. His arm flopped uselessly to his side, and his sword slid across the wagon floor.

"One done," the enemy smiled. His axe smashed into Halfdanr's head, blood and brains seeped from the wound as he collapsed.

"Die!" Rokr screamed again as he charged at the new warrior. He looked familiar, the one who fought beside Ivar. The huskarl. He should have died then. But now, Odin guided him. His axe lashed out and smashed into the same shoulder he attacked before, lifting his shield to block the counterblow. He felt a few of the mail links burst.

The man roared and prodded at him with the metal cap on the end of his axe's handle. It slipped past Rokr's guard and struck his face. He felt blood well up in his mouth as a hard chunk that must have been a tooth rolled over his tongue. Rokr roared, and felt the tooth roll out his mouth.

The man grabbed the rim of Rokr's shield and pulled while his weapon descended toward Rokr's head at the same time. Rokr stepped into the attack, pushing his shield into the man's gut and catching the shaft of his longaxe on his own blade. He kept pushing forward. The man fell from the wagon and grabbed onto Rokr's arm.

Rokr fell, landing hard on Maeva's shield. He growled as he rolled back to his feet. The warrior that pulled him from the wagon was before him. Stretching the arm he must have landed on, making certain to stay a safe distance from Rokr's axe. As though that will save him.

"Hold, Odin-Blessed," the huskarl said, nodding toward the back of the wagon as it continued forward. "Your people abandoned you. Put down your weapon and we'll take you in. Peaceful, like." The wagon careened around one of the houses and out of view.

Rokr charged at the man, his axe hacked at the man's weapon. The huskarl stepped out of the way.

"Fuck me. I should remember not to try and talk to a berserker. Alright, boy, let's see how much Odin loves you, truly."

Rokr roared and charged again. The man swung his longaxe at Rokr's head. He ducked below it and kept running, slicing his axe against the man's stomach. As he past the man he spun to the side and braced his shield as he felt the impact of the man's axe against the wood. The head pierced through, sending splinters raining onto Rokr.

The axe head lurched as the huskarl pulled it free of the shield. No not just any shield. It was important. Some part of Rokr screamed at the destruction. But Odin did not care. It still worked. The enemy threw another strike, again met by the shield. But more of the shield splintered with each hit.

"Yield!" the huskarl shouted as the longace cracked through the shield once more. This time what remained of the wood split away. Rokr swore and through the metal handle at the warrior. It struck him in the temple. He stepped back and his weapon lowered.

"Die! You fuck!" Rokr ran forward and grabbed the long axe keeping it low as he raised his own weapon high. One more strike to the weakened shoulder, where the army already broke would end him. _Odin guided me._

The man's eyes widened in fear as he lifted his arm to protect himself. The axe smashed into the mail around his forearm, rivets burst and Rokr felt his blade hit bone. He pulled his weapon out of the arm, snarling as it held together. _If it weren't for that fucking armor, Odin would have an arm now._

_No matter, soon he'd have the whole man. _

The huskarl screamed and heaved his longaxe toward Rokr with one hand. It smacked into Rokr's ribs as he leaped back. Air burst out of his lungs and ripped past the new gap in his teeth, stinging his mouth.

The longaxe ended back in the dirt, too awkward and heavy to use with only one good hand. Once more Odin blessed him, giving him a moment to catch his breath before the huskarl could attack again.

The thunderous clap of hooves sounded behind Rokr. Dive! Odin screamed. He leaped forward and felt the point of a spear scrape the bearskins along his back.

"No!" the huskarl tried to wave his wounded arm at the cavalry. "No. This is my holmganga. This is between us."

"Harrim, that's the fucking Odin-Blessed."

"I have him! I can kill him!"

"No," Rokr slurred through the foam in his mouth. _You can only die, like all who defy the All-Father._

The huskarl heaved the axe over his shoulder with his good arm. _He wants a definitive strike, he'll wait for the perfect moment_. _I will just have to give it to him._

Rokr circled around the wounded warrior sneering. Rokr charged at the one named Harrim, no shield, his weapon held low, his whole body open for a strike. The huskarl swung the longaxe. Rokr slid to his knees and caught the shaft of the longaxe between his axe and hand and pushed it to the ground. Rokr shot his blade forward toward the warrior's chest.

Harrim winced as the blade smashed into the mail of his chest. His longaxe slipped through his fingers. He swung with his wounded arm and smacked Rokr across the face. Rokr rolled back, his mouth aflame. The huskarl's hand grabbed Rokr's chin and pulled his neck back.

The berserker stepped back to try and right his body, only for the huskarl's knee to snake behind him. Harrim pushed and Rokr smashed onto the ground. The man's knee pressed into Rokr's chest.

"I did it," the huskarl smiled down. "I'm better." He grabbed the dirk at his belt and forced it down toward Rokr's neck.

Rokr roared and used his feet to push and twist his torso. The huskarl tumbled forward, his weight no longer on Rokr. The dirk missed Rokr's neck, and pierced his shoulder and stuck inside.

He struggled to his knees, beside him the huskarl picked himself up and reached for the longaxe that lay in the dirt.

He needed a weapon, he needed something. A thick slab of wood on the ground streaked with orange and black would have to do. The remains of a pattern he'd seen many times before.

The huskarl swung the axe toward Rokr. The berserker grabbed the wood and lifted it up. The blade impacted on the remains of the shield, sending a wave of force through Rokr's arms. The shield held, and the axe once more got stuck in it.

_Thank you, Odin, thank you, Maeva._ Rokr wretched his arm to the side and ripped the weapon from Harrim's hands. He grabbed the dirk and screamed, pulling it out of his shoulder. He stood over Harrim, as the huskarl clutched his wounded arm.

Odin's gift drifted back from Rokr's mind. His arm felt so heavy, and his back ached. But he won, Odin had given him that. He limped to his axe and picked it up with his one working arm. He felt his blood dripping down his side. Gods he wanted to sleep. No time, after he kills Harrim, he'll need to take on the cavalry.

He limped back to Harrim, who reached toward his longaxe. Rokr stepped on his fingers, causing his enemy to suck in air. Rokr kicked him in the chin, flipping Harrim onto his back, his fingers slipped out from under Rokr's boots though not all the skin went with them.

"Alright," Harrim whispered from the ground. "Get it done."

"You fought well."

"You fought better." Harrim reached to the side of his helmet and unlatched the strap with bloodied fingers. The helmet rolled into the dirt and dust, revealing the battered and sweating man beneath. Harrim lifted his chin high. "Make it clean? For my son?"

"Hrmm," Rokr, grabbed his knife and pressed it into the huskarl's throat. Blood welled up out of the wound and burst form his mouth. His arm reached wildly, clinging at Rokr. The berserker sheathed his blade and grabbed onto the dying man, until the life finally bled out of him.

Rokr let the man's hand drop, then took the longaxe and helmet and placed them both on Harrim's chest. "Odin, this one fought well and honored your ways. Guide him to your hall." He nodded, the work done, then walked with heavy steps to the remains of Maeva's shield and his axe.

He turned to the horseman, all of them with expressions of fear and shock across their faces.

"Alright, who's next?"

One of the horseman charged, his sword pointed toward Rokr's chest. Rokr ducked low and took the horse in the leg. Horse and rider slammed into the ground, both screaming. The next rider kicked his horse and lurched forward. His spear aimed low. Rokr jumped to the side and rolled back to his feet.

"Together!" one of them shouted.

The two horseman circled around him, setting their spears. Fuck, won't be able to dodge one without the other getting my guts. Best to not make it easy for him.

Rokr screamed and charged at one of the horses, his axe held back ready to deliver the strike as soon as the horse was in reach.

The horseman swore and nudged his mount forward. His spear reached out for Rokr, easy enough to dodge. He swung, his axe nicking the horse's rump as it ran passed. The berserker jumped to the ground and felt the air pass over his neck as the second horse scraped past.

He got back to his feet and watched as the two cavalrymen got their mounts under control and readied for another charge. Running at them wouldn't work again, not if they were halfway intelligent. No other option then.

Rokr sprinted toward the buildings, praying that the narrow roads would hinder his attackers. At the very least, keep them from surrounding him. He heard the heavy hooves of the horses following him.

"Fuck!" several armored warriors turned the corner, sword, spear, and mace at the ready. Rokr planted his foot and to turn, only for his foot to slide in the dirt and send him sprawling. As he pushed himself back to his feet he felt his body shake and his face landed back in the dirt.

He tried to push himself up again, only nothing happened.

He shuddered on the ground and looked to his arm. He screamed at what he saw, and at the pain that surged through his body.

"I got him!" one of the cavalrymen shouted. "I got the Odin-Blessed!"

Rokr used his remaining arm to struggle to his feet. He felt the blood where his other arm had been run down his side.

"I got him!" the cavalryman said again. "He's mine!" He turned his horse and charged.

Rokr roared and grabbed his axe from the ground and threw it.

The blade spun in the air, sending blood and dust across its path. It slammed into the chest of the rider. The enemy screamed and clutched at the wound. He fell with a thud quivering in the dirt. The animal veered away from Rokr and continued to run off away from the violence.

"No," a weak voice came from the fallen horseman. "No, no, no. Mother. I'm sorry."

Rokr staggered over to his last enemy, and grabbed the handle from his axe, jutting from the man's chest and pulled. With a wet slurp the weapon pulled free. The man continued to clutch at his wound. Not that it would do any good. He'd be dead soon. _Good, let him suffer._

The man moaned once more and rolled on the ground. Rokr glared down at the man, only a few years older than he. Sighing, Rokr pushed his axe down on the man's neck. Take him to Folkvangr, then.

"Alright," Rokr said. Why was he so cold? "Alright you fucks. Who's next?"

The men all stared at him. None moving or preparing their weapons. Cowards. Every last one of them, fucking cowards. They didn't deserve to be the one to kill him. Rokr heaved his axe to rest on his shoulder and took an uneasy step toward his enemy. "I'll just," he took another wobbling step. "Have to… carve through… all of you."

A loud crash and shout came from the side. A wagon careened toward him. The horses looked on the verge of collapse, one had half a javelin sticking from its back.

"There he is!" Bester shouted. "Get him! Get him!"

Rokr limped along their path. The wagon past him, Helgi hung out the back his arm outstretched. "Rokr! Jump!"

He took another weak step and leapt. His one arm reaching out for the wagon. Helgi's hand caught his wrist and pulled. He fell into the wagon floor gasping for air. And cold, so cold.

"Move, let me see him." The familiar wrinkled face of Bester appeared over him. "Oh gods."

"Too late," Rokr breathed.

"No." Bester ripped off his shirt and wrapped it around the stump of Rokr's arm. "No, I will not lose another child I raised. Not another."

Rokr shook his head. Why was everyone looking so fuzzy? "Shouldn't have come back."

"We should have gotten back sooner," his oldest friend said.

"Bjorn?" Rokr asked. "You're safe?"

"I am," the big man clutched his hand. Tears welled up in his eyes. Bjorn had always been too soft. "I owe you, everything I have and more."

"No," Rokr felt wetness dripping down his cheeks. Was he cut in the face as well? "No, it's my fault. Maeva."

"Rokr, you saved my life. Save your strength. You can tell me later."

"No. It's cold. It's all cold."

"Stay with me, Rokr," Bester tied his stump of an arm with his belt. He felt the leather strip dig into his arm. It should hurt, but it didn't. He felt to weak to be hurt.

"We could have got away," Rokr continued. "But I wanted to fight. I wanted to kill the Christian. I prayed to Odin and Thor for the storm."

"We all pray to the gods, that doesn't make what happens our fault."

"No, Odin listens to me. I'm his blessed. It's my fault we got here too slow to save Giertvedt. It's my fault we had to sail through a storm. It's my fault Maeva died."

Rokr pried his eyes open. It was so hard to stay awake. But they needed to know.

"None of us blame you."

"No," Rokr took a breath, but it didn't feel like his lungs were filling up. "I thought, I thought I could take her place. By you and Fror. I'm sorry."

Everyone started talking, but Rokr couldn't make out which voice went with which blur. With his remaining hand, Rokr grabbed the side of his bearskin cloak and tried to cover himself. But the fur slipped through his twitching fingers. One of the blurs took up the fur and draped it across his chest for him. But it was still so cold.

"Stay awake!" someone yelled. An old voice. Poor Bester. He tried so hard with all of them. He was too weak for this.

A shadow fell over the people, a shadow in the shape of two great ravens. Huginn and Muninn perched on the back of the wagon and looked down at Rokr.

_Did Odin send you? I am his, in this life and the next. I took my oaths, I held them. As best as I could. Have you come to guide me? _

The ravens' heads turned giving Rokr a questioning look.

"Wait," Rokr begged the ravens. "I'm sorry, Giermundr. I promised I'd keep your family safe. But Bjorn is the only one I could. I know that's not enough. I should have done better."

The ravens looked on in silent judgment. Would that failure keep him from Valhalla? He broke his sacred oath didn't he? Would Odin hold that against him? But the ravens didn't move, they simply waited patiently as the mortals moved around Rokr's body trying to bind wounds that had long since lost too much blood.

"I'm ready."

The ravens flew from the wagon as Rokr's eyes closed.


	12. Mission 11: The Old Ways

Bjorn said the words as the two stolen boats rocked from the waves. Small, far smaller than either deserved. Alif and Helgi placed the bodies of two men onto the ships, two men who gave their lives just to save him. A merchant who came late to glory, but fought no less viciously, and the most talented warrior Bjorn had ever seen.

His body ached as he finished the speech for Halfdanr. Helgi must have taken notice and wormed his way under his arm.

"Lean on me," he said, and gave Bjorn that little smile he always had for him.

Bjorn looked to those assembled before the dead. It wouldn't do to show such weakness before your warriors. But the faces he saw did not care. Alif looked a broken man, withered and terrified of his own shadow. By the gods does he look half as bad? Bester wept. And Edla, well Bjorn would deal with her later. He nodded and leaned on his lover.

"Odin," Bjorn continued "there has never been a more loyal servant to your name. By axe and shield. Through fire and sea. In life and death. Take him to your hall, Wise One. Grant Rokr one more of your blessings." He looked to his companions. "Anyone have any words?"

"To Halfdanr, I can only say, I'm sorry." Bester began. "I will keep your wife and children safe. You have done more than even I demanded." He wiped a tear from his eye. "And Rokr. I remember when Giermudnr brought you to the hall. Your hair wild and covered in mud and shit. Some of the women thought you were a troll. We heard stories that you slew three grown men with a stick. But to me, you were just a child. There is no one more deserving of Valhalla."

"Both of them saved me," Edla said. "I don't think I deserve it. But, thank you. I wish I knew you both better."

Bjorn gave Edla a sideways glance, then stepped forward. "We give them to you All-Father. Guard them from Hela's domain."

They watched as the boats sailed over the horizon and out of sight.

"Alright," Alif croaked. "Where do we go?"

"Our people are with Alfhild," Bjorn said. "We go to her."

"She won't be happy."

"When is she ever?"

"No," Bester said. "She'll be furious. Rokr promised her something that we can no longer give."

"What?"

"Rokr would fight her to the death, to see who Odin valued more."

Bjorn squinted at Bester. "He did what?"

"They were going to have a whole Holmganga. That was her price for looking over our people."

"I guess I could fight her."

"No," Alif said. "I can't let you. You're the last of the Giermundrssons. I'll fight her."

Bjorn pulled away from Helgi and limped over to Alif. "My friend, I'm starting to think that loyalty to the Giermundrssons is misplaced."

"Never."

They set up camp for the night, determined to make the last leg of the journey to Warrenloch in the morning. The survivors sat beside a fire and told stories of Rokr and some of his more fearsome exploits. Bjorn laughed remembering the time he nearly broke Erik Redhorn's arm when the two decided on a wrestling match over the chance to lay with one of the thrall girls. Helgi brought up the times he would beg at the kitchens for scraps of food.

One among their group stayed silent. Edla stared into the fire, occasionally glancing up at Bjorn only to quickly avoid his eyes when he noticed her. She would need to be dealt with, and she knew it. When the embers of the fire died and the winter chill crept upon them they split for the night. Edla drew second watch, after Bester. Bjorn found his blankets and waited throughout the old thralls turn watching the night sky, until he went to wake Edla.

She sat looking over the still river and sky until Bester's snores rose. She stood up grabbing her blankets and rushed to the food throwing some of the salted fish into her bag.

"Going somewhere, Edla?" Bjorn said.

She frose, a fish half in her bag. Bjorn got to his feet and limped to her side. He sat down to look over the waters then pulled her down beside him. "Here, sit. I'm surprised to see you here. But then, that's not the first surprise you've given me."

Edla visibly shook as she sat down. "Are you going to kill me?"

Bjorn stopped for a moment, he didn't know what he would do with her. She deserved death, that he didn't doubt. Yet, she rescued him. "That depends."

"On what?"

"How convincing your story is. So, Edla, explain yourself."

"I thought you and your brother were going to get us all killed. I thought once Ivar killed you all, he'd storm through Giertvedt and slaughter or enslave everyone."

"Your sisters."

"They'd be killed, or worse. My family have seen what happens when the Jarls make war. I've… I've seen raiders come into homes. When I was younger, and your father fought Alfhild. And one of her men came to my home, and…" She shuddered again. "I didn't want that to happen to my sisters."

Bjorn nodded, "And how did Ivar reward you?"

"He gave me gold and wouldn't let me go until after his army moved out. He said he needed to be certain I couldn't warn anyone," she started to cry. "He didn't even ask which farm my family were on. He didn't spare anyone."

Bjorn wrapped his arm around the young girl as she struggled to control herself.

"They're gone. I tried to protect them and they're all gone."

"We both failed our family, then. We both lead them to their deaths. I was so certain it was Ivar. I knew it, in my bones that he was behind everything. I'm the one that convinced Fror to see him as our enemy."

"So, what will you do with me?"

"I remember you, and your family. Skula's girls," Bjorn gave a small smile. "At Fror's wedding. You, Snafrid, and Jorunn. And the little one, barely more than a babe. Nanna, I think."

"I danced with you."

"You did, you moved well."

"And you didn't," she gave a nervous laugh. "So big and strong, even then, but couldn't keep to the beat."

"Then why did you keep coming back to me? We danced, what? Four times."

"Because you were you. Kind and funny. I thought, it's stupid, that foolish thought young girls have. That if I danced elegantly enough, and said the right things, and made you laugh. That'd you see me as more than just some farmer's daughter. In a few years, I could have a great protector as a husband."

Bjorn laughed until he had tears in his eyes.

Edla glared at him, "it wasn't a bad plan. It worked on Fror didn't it? We all knew that his wife wasn't some Jarl's daughter."

"Not a bad plan, but the wrong brother."

"I know that now. But no one told me about your desires then."

"Fair enough," Bjorn looked at Edla and wiped away the last remains of the tears on her cheeks. "No, Edla, I'm not going to kill you. You saved my life. Besides, I don't think there's anyone alive who despises Ivar more. Will you help me take him down?"

"Yes."

"Then we're together, and I don't have so many allies I can kill off the ones I do have."

"Snafrid may still be alive," Edla said.

"Fror as well."

"I'm going to find her."

"And I, him. But that comes after I deal with Alfhild."

"May the gods favor you, then."

"They will, why else would they have all you save me?"

"What do you mean?"

"We got away from Ivar, with me alive. That shouldn't have happened. The gods must want something from me in return."

"What?"

"Don't know."

"We lost Halfdanr and Rokr just to do that much."

"Aye, that's what has me convinced. Odin gave up his blessed, for me."

"I don't know if Rokr was his blessed."

"And why's that?"

"I always thought Odin would bless someone to make them better. But Rokr, his blessing drove him forward risking himself to do the impossible. Again and again. He sought out Ivar in the middle of his army. He stormed a city just to rescue you. Until he pushed too hard and died for it. Crying in a wagon. Shouldn't the god's blessing make life easier?"

"Not even gods can change the river of Fate. Only push it or manipulate it, but it always ends in the same place."

"No."

"That is the way of things, you can't just say no."

"I can. If Fate took my sisters to Hela's domain, then nothing I did mattered. There had to have been something I could have done to stop it. To save them. I won't just discard my guilt because Fate said they were to die."

"I don't know, I think a war was coming one way or the other. Against Ivar, or against Alfhild, or the Christians. I don't think one woman can shoulder the burden of all the deaths that spiral out of one mistake."

"Watch me."

* * *

They pulled ashore two days later, beneath an armed outpost where Alfhild placed guards to watch for any of Ivar's remaining forces that remained in the Giertvedt. As they walked to the hall they saw a crowd gather outside. Alfhild, axe in hand, stood upon a holmganga cloak. A tall thin man stood opposite her brandishing an ill-made mace.

"Please," the man said. "Please, we don't have to fight."

"Yes we do," Alfhild laughed and swung her axe into the man's shield, chunks of wood poured onto the ground at the impact.

"Why? My family has done nothing to you," the man cowered behind the remains of his shield.

"You stepped on the cloak. Now fight."

"If I didn't you'd take my land."

"And if you lose I take it anyway, now fight."

The man raised his mace high and smashed it down toward Alfhild. But the old woman stepped aside and let the man's weight carry him forward. She got behind the man and kicked him in the back of the knee. The man screamed as his leg twisted at an unnatural angle. He fell forward off the cloak. He rolled on the trodden snow clutching at his broken leg.

"Gods how dull. Take care of this shit," she waved to several of her huskarls. "Then go flush out the rats at his farm. Find all the food he kept hidden and bring it to our stores."

"Aye, Jarlkona."

"I never meant to offend you," the man on the ground cried. "I never. You have to believe me, I never did."

One of Alfhild's huskarl's picked up the man by the shoulder and dragged him past. "Doesn't matter what you meant. Now quit your bawling, you're worse than a child." The man continued to cry as Alfhild's huskarl pulled him out of sight.

Alfhild sighed and tucked her axe into her belt. "Fucking dull." She looked to Bjorn standing on the wagon and a cruel smile twisted her lips. "But maybe this won't be. Giermundrsson!"

Alfhild walked toward the wagon and the crowd split before her. "They actually did it! Honestly, thought they'd all get themselves killed."

"Mighty Alfhild," Bjorn held out his hand to her. "I am told, I must thank you. You have saved my people."

"Yes, yes, I am so disgustingly merciful. Where is he? Rokr! Get out here! I just had my warm up and I will have what I am due."

"Alfhild," where does he begin? "Alfhild, I'm afraid in the battle-" The Valkyrie-Born punched Bjorn in the face. "What?"

"The most natural warrior of your generation!" Alfhild stepped toward Bjorn, her hands clutched at her axe. "My one chance. The one thing I truly wanted in this life!"

"Jarlkona," Helgi stepped toward her, his hands held out. "We know your disappointed. We-"

"Shut your cock hole, or I'll make you take Rokr's place."

Bjorn wiped his lip, and saw the blood across his hand. She struck him, he was owed his wereguild. But somehow he did not think Alfhild was in the mind to pay. "Rokr died a true warrior's death. He killed Harrim the Dreadhand. He faced down cavalry on foot and took his killer out with him. He was a hero of legend."

"He was, and I was going to kill him. And all I have left is you. And look at you, one punch has you to your fucking knees. You're weak, you're slow. You're fucking nothing!"

Her hands twisted on her axe, her eyes boring into Bjorn. And for a moment he truly saw the woman that defied his father for years. The one that slaughtered men and woman while singing and laughing. The Valkyrie-Born, she who is battle incarnate.

"I'm not, fucking nothing. I am Bjorn the Breaker. I faced down a king in his hall. I faced torture for weeks and kept my mind about me. And I will not be talked down to by you, or anyone. Give me a longaxe and I'll face you myself."

"Bjorn, no!" Helgi clutched at his arm.

Alfhild glared between Helgi and Bjorn. "Fuck!" she turned and threw her axe. The crowd dived out the way as the blade clashed to the ground. "Fuck! Fuck!"

She stormed into her hall, slamming the door behind her.

"You idiot," Helgi whispered to Bjorn. "What if she comes back with a longaxe? You can't face her like this. You need rest, you need food." He rubbed one of the new scars that crossed his arm. "You can't do this."

Bjorn took his hand. "My people are all under Alfhild's thumb. I'll do what I must, as the Fates dictate. What else can a man do?"

They waited, but Alfhild did not leave her hall. Slowly the crowd broke apart.

"What is she waiting for?" Bester muttered.

Bjorn shrugged. Then stepped toward the hall.

"What are you doing?" Helgi grabbed his arm. "We don't want to disturb her. We can just gather our people and go."

"Go where?" Bjorn asked. "We still need her." Bjorn took Helgi's hand and kissed it. "Don't worry, my love. The gods didn't save me from Ivar, just for me to die here."

"Just, please be careful."

Bjorn smiled. "Always am."

"Liar."

He kissed Helgi's hand again and took a deep breath. "Alright, Thor," he muttered as he walked to the door. "Give me luck, I'm going to need it."

He pushed the large wooden doors open with a creak. Inside, Bjorn expected to see a hall filled with blood and violence. As wild and untamed as the hall's mistress. Instead it looked much like Giertvedt. A large table with benches and stools hanging over it. Some thralls washed a stain on the wall, while another tended to the barrels of weapons by the door. He quickly glanced over the weapons stored inside, several longaxes clearly visible. _So she doesn't want to fight me, then?_

"You there," Bjorn walked to one of the thralls cleaning and oiling the weapons. "Friend, where is the Jarlkona?"

The man looked to Bjorn then back down to his feet. "The lady is in her room. But she doesn't want to be disturbed."

"Where is her room?"

"Respectfully, I should be getting back to work," the man focused on the weapons, refusing to meet Bjorn's eyes.

Bjorn continued through the hall, it'd be somewhere in the back wouldn't it? Bjorn passed the large table and entered a small passage to the side that lead to a ladder. He climbed it and saw a single door. He heard a quiet sound coming from the room.

Bjorn pressed his ear to the door. The noise became clear, someone cried behind the door. It couldn't be Alfhild? The only emotion that woman has is rage and hate.

"Freeman Bjorn," a soft voice called from below the ladder. "Freeman Bjorn."

Bjorn glanced over the side of the floor. The same thrall by the weapons looked up at him.

"Freeman Bjorn, the Jarlkona does not wish to be disturbed when she is like this."

"She's crying."

"Hush!" the man's eyes grew wide, then he looked down at his feet. "My apologies Giermundrsson. I did not wish to raise my voice to you. Only the Jarlkona does not allow people to talk of this."

Bjorn climbed down the ladder to the thrall. "Talk of what?"

The man shuddered. "We do not talk about this. I'm sorry. The Jalkona is, she does not like people seeing her weakness." The thrall's eyes bulged as he realized what he said and returned to looking at his feet.

"Just crying? That is no weakness, did not Odin cry when Baldr was taken from him?"

"No, she is- please, just do not disturb the Jarlkona."

"Of course," Bjorn nodded. "Please don't tell her I was here."

"I will not lie to my lady, but I will not mention this conversation unless she asks."

"Thank you," Bjorn nodded to the man and left the hall. His companions waited for him just outside the doors. Bester talked to one of Alfhild's older thralls, and Helgi helped a child pick up some apples that had scattered on the ground, a broken basket in his hand.

"Well?" Edla said, the first to see Bjorn. "You're still alive. I'll take that as a good sign."

"What did she say?" Bester stepped away from the other thrall and Helgi quickly handed the apples back to the boy before rushing to Bjorn's side.

"She did not wish to see me. Bester, what options do we have?"

"We can try to gather our people. Giertvedt is still occupied, we will need to find some other home."

"That's not truly an option. What other home could we find?"

"The mountains," Alif said. "We take our people to the mountains and try to survive there. Deep enough and Ivar won't be able to reach us with an army."

"And we'll lose all our women and children to the cold," Bester pointed out. "That's no option either.

"It's that or Giertvedt. At least with the mountains there's a chance some of us will survive the winter."

They continued to discuss as a commotion rose at the low encircling walls around the hall. A group of ten horsemen galloped through the crowd of villagers.

"Shit," Bjorn muttered. The riders moved toward them, close enough to see the flecks of blood splattered across the armor. A grim sight even if he knew who these riders were, but they all looked new to him. None of them warriors he'd seen aligned with Alfhild.

"Stay behind me, Bjorn," Alif said, and stepped in front of him. "They won't take you again."

The riders stopped before the hall. The old thrall that Bester talked to stepped forward. "What is the meaning of this? Do you know who's land you are on?"

"Back off old fool," the lead rider took off his helm revealing long dyed red hair and a pristine beard. "We come with orders from your king, to cut down all who would stop us."

"Please," one beside him said, a much younger man with only the shadow of a mustache on his lip. "Just stand aside, I have no desire to hurt the unarmed."

"Bjorn," the first one looked to him. "You are to return to Harald's Hall and face the king's justice."

"I would," Bjorn pushed past Alif. "If I thought the king was just in first place."

"Just come with us," the second rider said. "We will not hurt you or your companions if you come with us."

"You're all covered with blood, makes me somehow doubt that."

"We met an outpost that tried to prevent us from doing our duty. We dealt with them as appropriate."

The old thrall shifted uneasily. "I would not go boasting of that, were I you."

"A thrall will not be giving me orders. Now, hand over our prisoner."

"Try and take him, troll shit!" Alif bellowed and pulled a seax from one of Alfhild's men. The rider smiled and slid his helmet back on.

"Take them!" He laughed, "let axe and sword sing!"

_No,_ Bjorn thought. _I'm not going to get capture by this pretentious little shit._ The horsemen charged leveling spear and swinging swords. Bjorn dived to the side as one mount tried to trample him.

He heard someone screaming. "Weapon!" he shouted. "I need something!"

He looked about trying to find something to use. He grabbed a wooden stake and flung it at a nearby horseman. He hit the man in the arm and sent his spear wide. Bjorn stepped out the way and let the horse travel past.

"Weapon!" he screamed again.

"Here, here!" Bester and the old thrall propped the door of Alfhild's Hall open and threw weapons and shields out to those who stood nearby. Townsfolk from Warrenloch and Giertvedt snatched them out of the air and faced down Ivar's warriors.

The boy rider kicked his horse forward and swung his sword toward Bjorn. Bjorn dived out of the way but felt the blade bite into his shoulder. He hit the ground hard and took a moment to cover his wounded arm.

"Bjorn!" Helgi ran to his side. "Are you alright? Can you move?"

"Kid just nicked me," with Helgi's aid he got to his feet.

"Fucker," Helgi scowled as he pushed Bjorn toward the weapons. "I'll kill him myself."

Bjorn smiled as he reached the equipment scattered across the ground. He grabbed a well-cleaned longaxe. As his fingers wrapped around the weapon, his smile grew wider. It weighed close enough to his own. For the first time since he confronted the king, he felt like himself. "Stay behind me, love."

"Not a chance," Helgi took his place at Bjorn's side, spear and shield in hand. "We fight together."

"Then there's no way we can lose."

For a moment, Helgi blushed_. By the gods, I love that man_.

"Look out!" Helgi said and pushed his shield forward, a spear scrapped across the surface leaving a deep gash.

"Already, my guardian." Bjorn put his longaxe at his shoulder and walked forward into the thick of the fighting.

"Die!" one of Ivar's men screamed and charged, his sword raised high. Too high, and at a terrible angle. Bjorn slammed his axe down chopping at the horse's head as it got close. The animal died before it finished its next step. It toppled over pinning the rider beneath it.

"Helgi, my flank." Bjorn said as he walked over the horse to the rider. Helgi took guard, holding his shield out for any that would attack him from behind. The king's man grabbed at the ground, his fingers creating streaks in the snow. But he didn't, his leg pinned beneath the weight of the animal. Bjorn approached with axe ready, he didn't want to deal with another of those fucking berserkers.

The rider looked at Bjorn, his eyes widened with fear and he reached for the knife at his side.

"You don't want to be doing that."

The man sighed and let go of the handle, "Mercy?"

Bjorn reached down and pulled the knife out of its sheath and tossed it away. "You right handed, yes?"

"Yes?" the man looked confused.

"Good," Bjorn stomped on the man's arm and heard the bone snap.

"What did you do? Fuck! Why?" the man screamed.

"You have your life. I doubt you'd give me the same treatment," Bjorn walked back to Helgi, glancing along the battlefield. The fight rolled past them as the riders circled around. "What do you see?"

"Just chaos."

"Yes, yes. But what's the shape of it? Who is getting pushed back, and where is it safe. If you're going to be a warrior you'll need to learn to see it true."

"Is that what you do?"

"I try." In truth, Fror and Maeva truly had that talent. But they didn't seem to be here. He'd need to use his head.

"There," he pointed with his longaxe toward a wagon. "We use that to guard our backs, and horse will always avoid charging at it direct."

"Then let's go," Helgi tensed behind his shield. They had the whole breadth of the battlefield to get there.

"Hold," he said grabbing Helgi and pulling him back. Two of the horses charged past, spear and axe lowered scrapping at the tangled mob of men and woman that took up arms against them.

"Now!" He rushed forward in the gap created by the horses. Helgi a step behind. Another rider screamed past hacking at the mob, his weapon flashing an arm's length from Bjorn's head. The man in front of them tried to scream, but no sound came out as blood spewed out of a wound in his neck.

Helgi stepped back, as blood splattered into his eyes and mouth. He stumbled on the churned dirt and fell to his knee. "Ahh!" he dropped his spear and tried to wipe the red from his eyes.

"Forward!" Bjorn grabbed Helgi's arm and pushed him forward. "And shield up!"

"Help!" a woman screamed as hands clutched at his legs. "Oh gods, help me!" A wrinkled old woman, her clothes torn and blood dripping down her side, tried to pull herself out from beneath Bjorn's feet. He leaped away from her as the press of the battle forced her into the muck.

"Keep going!" Bjorn ordered and released Helgi. He took his longaxe and grabbed the end near the head. He placed the length of the handle against the men and pushed them to the side. "Move! Get out of my way!" he bellowed at the mob of men. One stepped back on the woman's head, forcing her face into ground.

"Get off!" he punched the terrified looking man, sending him sprawling back into the mob. "Take my hand!" The woman's arm floundered, and her eyes darted about wildly. Too far gone for reason. Bjorn shouldered into another man and shoved him out of the way. He grabbed the woman around the waist and heaved her out of the bloodstained snow and mud.

She came up screaming, before she coughed and gasped for air.

"Move!" Bjorn prodded her toward the wagon. The old woman grabbed onto his arm.

"Please help me," she sobbed.

"I'm trying! Move, or Hela take you!" Her eyes were wide, unfocused. "Fuck!" Bjorn grabbed onto the woman and dived into the dirt as a broken shield flew through the air toward the back of her head.

The woman screamed as they hit the dirt. Bjorn covered her mouth and looked up. They had a moment. "Listen to me. What's your name?"

"Grim-Grimhild," the lady whispered.

"Grimhild," Bjorn took her hands. "If we don't move we will die. Do you understand?"

She said something indistinct.

"Do. You. Understand?"

"Yes."

"Good," Bjorn pulled her to her feet. "Now, move!"

The woman fled toward the wagon. Bjorn ran after her, pushing past the various fighters in the battle. He grabbed one man's shoulder and moved him aside and he saw Helgi at the wagon. The old woman beside him. Edla stood in the wagon, spear in hand and screaming her head off as she prodded at any horseman that came close.

Helgi smiled as he saw Bjorn move through the crowd, only for his eyes to grow wide and his mouth opened. The hair on the back of Bjorn's neck stood on end. He spun about only to see the head of a spear thrust toward him, far faster than he could react to.

The point struck the lip of Helgi's shield, scrapping the metal rim as it glanced away from Bjorn straight up. The huskarl blinked and saw Helgi beside him, his shield raised and his arm shaking. The spear protruding from his face.

"No!' Bjorn screamed, he grabbed the length of the spear and smashed down with his longaxe. The spear split and Helgi collapsed. Bjorn looked to the rider that held the stump of the spear. The boy that couldn't even grow a mustache threw the spear down and fiddled for the blade at his side.

Bjorn screamed and hacked down at the man, his blade missed the boy and cleaved deep into the horse. The animal leaped away from Bjorn, but it would not go far. After a few uneasy steps it collapsed, pinning the boy rider beneath it.

Bjorn scooped up Helgi and ran toward the wagon.

"In here!" Edla reached out for Helgi and pulled him inside and laid him down. "Oh gods." Bjorn leaped up onto the wagon and shoved past her.

"No, no," he looked down at the ruin of Helgi's face. "Oh gods, please no." The spear pierced through his nose and down into his jaw. His eyes twitched back and forth between Bjorn and Edla.

Bjorn reached out to cradle Helgi's head but stopped himself. What if he made it worse? His hands hung in the air over his love. What could he do? No, this can't be happening. The gods wouldn't let this happen. What should he do? How can he help him?

"I need to see how deep the wound is," Edla rest her hands on Bjorns and pushed them away from Helgi. "Take his hand, Bjorn."

Bjorn grabbed both of Helgi's hands and squeezed them tight. Was this too tight? Was he hurting him worse?

"I'm sorry Helgi, this is going to hurt."

Edla placed her fingers on Helgi's mouth and pulled back the skin that had once been lips. A loud gurgling noise came from Helgi's throat, as he twisted away from Edla's hands.

"I can't," Bjorn said and looked away from him. "Oh gods, I can't see this."

"I got him." Edla said to Bjorn. "Go out there and do something about this shit."

"But, Helgi needs me."

Edla slapped him. "He needs a real healer, not someone who just knows how to stitch up after a drunk. You're not doing shit in here. Go!"

Bjorn looked once more at Helgi, and saw the fear etched around his eyes.

"I'll be back." The wagon shook. The wood split as a javelin pierced a small hole for light to show through.

"No shit!" Edla pushed him. "Go!"

Bjorn kissed Helgi's forehead before he grabbed his longaxe and headed out of the wagon.

"You fell for an idiot." He heard Edla say before he touched the snow. He checked the side of the wagon. A few survivors stood around it, and half a spear stuck out of the side where someone struck them.

"Warriors, to me!" Bjorn shouted. "Get the old and weak to the wagon!"

Some of the mob rushed to his side and levelled spear and axe against the cavalry. Eight of the dozen of king's men still held the field, including that prick leader of theirs. Below them far more lay dead and dying.

"Bjorn!" he waved his sword. "Bjorn you can stop this madness. Ivar doesn't care about any of these people. He only wants you."

"Form up!" Bjorn shouted. "Shields forward, spears out. We stop their fucking charges right here." The mob was no army, but they managed to form something that resembled a shield wall.

"So be it, Breaker. These deaths are on your hands." The eight horsemen formed up and readied their weapons at the crowd. Bjorn grit his teeth and raised his longaxe high. If the men held, the cavalry will be slowed enough for him to hack the horses down. Best hope he had. _If the mob held_.

"What in the fuck is fucking happening here you shitbrained pissants?" a loud voice rang over the battlefield. Bjorn looked to the doors of Alfhild's hall and saw the Valkyrie-Born in all her rage and glory. Her white hair hung wild, made all the fiercer with copious war paint added around her eyes, dripping down her face. She wore the bearskin of a berserkr, in one hand she held three javelins, and in the other a shield with raven wings painted in white over black.

"This has nothing to do with you," the leader shouted. "This man is escaped from King Ivar, and we are tasked with retrieving him."

"Nothing to do with me, does it?" She said. "You come to my home. You kill my thralls. You attack my guests. And this has fucking nothing to do with me?"

"I have orders from your king-"

A javelin cut through the air plunging deep into the stomach of the rider. The man screamed and clutched at the javelin. His fellow outriders formed around him. Two more javelins soared. One piercing another rider in the neck, the other buried deep into a shield.

"The king does not remember the old ways. And you young ones have all forgotten, too. You want a jarl's guests? You get permission from the jarl. You want to kill some of a jarl's thralls or freefolk? You get permission from the jarl. You come to my lands! You spilled blood I own! Now, your lives belong to Odin, and I'll be the one sending you to him!"

Alfhild stomped her feet and her huskarl's surrounded her in a wall of steel. The riders tried to steer their horses around to ready a charge against Alfhild. Alfhild lifted her shield and bit down, while her eyes bulged. Her stomping stopped, and she pulled an axe from her belt.

"To death!" she screamed and raised her shield high, saliva dripped down her chin. Alfhild and her huskarls charged, with the old Valkyrie-Born rushing ahead of her men, her hair forming a white crown around her head.

Ivar's outriders charged a momentum later. The huskarl's cut the legs out from under the horses, while the riders trampled over the unlucky huskarls too slow to move out of their path.

"Forward!" Bjorn ran toward the fighting. "Get them from the back!" The tangled mob lurched toward the enemy. Men, woman, and children ran over the churned muck in the middle of the field. A young man outpaced Bjorn clutching a mace and the remaining half of a shield. He screamed as he struck a rider in the knee. The rider screamed and dropped his weapon. Alfhild's huskarls dragged him off his horse and butchered him while the horse skidded away.

Bjorn struck at another rider, his longaxe biting into the rings of his target's hauberk. The rider fell off his horse, still holding the reigns. He pulled the horse to the side, the animal tried to turn, its hooves pressing into the chest of its former rider.

The man's scream cut off as his chest collapsed, leaving a twitching wreck of a man. Over the screams and whining horses, Bjorn heard a high-pitched laugh. Alfhild danced between the horses, her axe dripping viscera, blood mixed with her war paint, twisting her features into a horror worse than the guards of Hela.

"You!" she laughed as she grabbed the leader of the outriders, still clutching the wound in his stomach. "What shall I do with you?" She pulled the man down, he crashed into the snow.

"Please, my uncle loves me. If you leave me alive, the king will reward you. He'll do anything you-"

Alfhild's axe struck his neck in a single clean cut. She roared and held the man's head high. "Death!" she threw the head at one of the remaining outriders, bouncing off his mailed chest. "Death and glory!"

"It's over!" one of the surviving riders said and threw down his spear. "It's over, mercy."

Alfhild smiled and walked over to him and picked up his weapon. "Good spear," she tested the balance, then thrust the weapon back at its owner. It pierced him straight in the chest and pushed him off his horse. The man landed on his back screaming. "Pity its owner was a coward. Kill them all, boys! No one dishonors Jarlkona Alfhild. No one."

Her men killed the survivors. Those outriders at the outskirts of the battle fled as fast as their tired horses could carry them. Javelins and slings to struck them in their backs. Only two made it out, on tired and wounded horses. They would not make it far. They were not important, Alfhild can have them. There was only one that Bjorn needed to kill. One of Alfhild's men found the boy that had struck Helgi struggling beneath a fallen horse and waving wildly with his seax.

"It's over, lad," the man said. "Stop your struggling and I'll make this quick."

"No," Bjorn said, pulling the man back. "This one is mine." The warrior gave him a foul look but moved aside, handing Bjorn his knife.

The boy looked at Bjorn as tears filled his eyes. "It's only my first battle," he said.

"It's your last," Bjorn slit his throat. The boy tried to look brave. But the façade cracked as his mouth opened to wail only for a stream of blood to burst out of his mouth and through the hole in his throat.

Bjorn turned away and scowled. That was the boy that hurt Helgi. He shouldn't be feeling pity for the one that hurt Helgi. He walked back to the center of the battlefield, letting the kid die alone.

"Bester!" Bjorn called and searched through the battle. "Bester, where are you?"

"Here, boy," the old man appeared with a dirk in his hand and mud coating his clothes. "Here, are you hurt?"

"It's Helgi. He needs a healer."

"Where is he?"

"The wagon."

"Go back to him, I'll find him one." Bester turned to Alfhild's old thrall and questioned him about healers and priests.

Bjorn ran back to the wagon, and clambered up. "How is he?" he asked before he'd gotten all the way inside.

"He's resting." Edla moved away from Helgi, his face wrapped up in cloth. Around them several elderly thralls and children held each other

"Resting? There was a battle outside."

"Getting your face torn off is tiring."

Bjorn glared to Edla and sat beside his love. He picked up his hand and squeezed it.

"I know you don't want to hear this," one of the elders said. "But I got a look at the boy, when your girl wrapped up his face. There's nothing you can do about him."

"Silence," Bjorn didn't bother to look at the old fool.

"My uncle got his face kicked in by a horse, it didn't look as bad as that. But it ruined him, he was asking for people to kill him before the end."

"I said be silent!" Bjorn snarled and raised his fist.

The old man backed away. "I'm sorry, but it's for the man's own good."

"Alright, battle's over. All of you cowards, get out of my fucking wagon," Edla shouted.

The old man nodded and left, the others followed him. Some gave quiet prayers for Helgi's health, but most simply slipped out of the wagon without looking in Bjorn's eyes.

Bjorn knelt beside his love and rubbed Helgi's hand. He hoped he felt it in his dreams, and maybe there'd be some peace. Edla sat down in the far corner, away from the pair of them. She crossed her arms over her legs and waited, hiding almost as much of her face as Helgi.

Bjorn waited, giving silent prayers to Frigga, and promising the sacrifice of a hundred cattle to Odin should Helgi be safe. Everything he had, everything he would become. All of it would be dedicated to the gods, so long as they keep Helgi alive.

"I see, I see, help me up." A wrinkled old man, hair and skin streaked with paint appeared by the back of the wagon, Bester at his side. For a moment, Bjorn thought he was a spirit come to mock them, Bester looked a spry youth by comparison.

The old man, held out his arm and several hands from outside pushed him up onto the wagon. He still stumbled as his first foot touched the floor, causing the numerous charms and symbols of the gods he wore to chime and rattle as they struck each other.

"Well, I'm told you're wounded." The holy man squinted at Bjorn. "Bunch of nasty cuts on you I see."

"No, not me," Bjorn pointed to Helgi. "Him."

"Him?" The man moved until his eyes were a finger's length from Bjorn's hand then followed the path until he reached Helgi. "Ahh, yes, him."

He scuttled to the man clearly lying on the floor wounded. "His face is wrapped up."

"Yes."

"Hard to see the problem with his face wrapped up."

Bester and the other old thrall climbed into the wagon. Bjorn looked to them, and nodded to the old healer.

"He's the best we have," Alfhild's old thrall said.

"I'm the best anyone has." The healer started to unwrap Helgi's bandages. "Always someone to heal around our lady. She keeps me busy, that she does."

His charms on his arm clanked together as he finished, one dropped on Helgi's face. Helgi's body immediately tensed and a high-pitched whine came from his throat.

"I'm here, Helgi, I'm here." Bjorn said and grabbed his lover's hand. "He's going to help you."

"Yes," the man put his nose right up to Helgi's wound. "Yes, I'm going to help you. Yes. Help you. Yes." He turned to Bester, "my bag."

Bester quickly grabbed a sack and passed it to the healer. He rummaged through the bag and pulled out several large holy symbols. "And how did the young man get the wound?"

"Spear to the face."

"Well obviously, obviously. But what was he doing? Did he charge recklessly into battle in order to slay his many foes? Did he slip and fall? I need to know these things."

"He- he tried to defend me. The spear was coming for me and he got in the way."

"Ahh, a noble wound then. Very noble. Protecting people. That's Thor's business, that is." The healer took a necklace with a stone cut in the shape of Mjollnir. "Up you go," he tugged at Helgi's head, causing him to squirm, and tucked the chain around the back of his neck.

"Thor, this man bravely put his body before the oncoming spears to protect his-" he turned to Bjorn. "What are you, his brother?"

"He's my lover."

"Oh, hmm, what? You seem big for an ergi."

"I am not!"

"Oh? Then he? Hmm. Hmm. An ergi fighting on a battlefield? The youth these days. Unfortunately, Thor isn't much know to protecting ergi. None of the gods are. Maybe Freyr? But then, most ergi don't place themselves in harm's way. Hmm, hmm, yes. Maybe they'll make an exception. Maybe they will. Yes." He reached in his bag for another charm, nodded to himself then raised his hands high. "Mighty Thor and handsome Freyr, he put his body before the oncoming spears to protect his lover. Despite his unmanliness. Very noble of him. And has chosen you as his divine patrons. Please grant him your strength and virility."

The healer centered the symbol of Thor on Helgi's chest and the boar of Freyr on his stomach. Then went to work on Helgi's face. "Hmm, missed his tongue. He will still be able to talk, lucky, lucky. Of course, hope his fortune holds and he does not get rot. Yes. Rot will probably come first."

"What do we do about rot?"

"That depends. Don't rush me, boy, I'm trying to heal your ergi here, not mine." Helgi squirmed as the healer continued to prod in his mouth. He frowned and shook his head before going back into his bag and pulled out some clean cloths, and dabbed at the blood and puss. "You there, gangly girl. Go fetch me hot water."

"Gangly girl?" Edla frowned.

"Just do as he says," Bjorn snapped. "Please."

Still glowering she crept past the men and left the wagon.

"And be quick about it," the old healer shouted after her. "The longer you wait the worse he'll get. Yes, he will."

The healer continued to chant to the gods, asking for their guidance, as he drew various symbols around Helgi's arms and neck. Most were simple symbols of the gods, from the raven and bear of Odin, to the cats of Freyja. But some Bjorn had never seen before.

"Bjorn," a voice called from outside the wagon. "Bjorn are you in there?"

"I'm busy," Bjorn stroked Helgi's hand.

"Shit, he's in here!" the voice called.

_What fucking now?_

A familiar white haired and gore encrusted woman appeared at the wagon's rear entrance. "The fuck are you shits doing in here?" Alfhild pulled herself up the wagon before she noticed Helgi. "Ahh, unfortunate. Ahh, well, at least his cock hole will certainly be wide enough for you."

"What did you say?" Bjorn stood to face the Valkyrie-Born, his fists clenched.

"Probably not as good with the actual sucking, though."

Bjorn grabbed onto her bearskin cloak and raised his fist to strike her. Her axe shot up between them. Waving it around Bjorn's face as she smiled.

"I don't think that's how you treat your savior. Now, let me go before I take that hand for myself."

"What do you want, Alfhild?" he released her.

"We need to discuss what I'm going to fucking do about you. Get out of the wagon, it smells like dying ergi in here."

She turned and hopped out of the wagon. Bester grabbed onto Bjorn's arm. "It's alright, she is trying to make you angry. She needs a reason to break guest's right."

"I can hear you, thrall. Bjorn, get out here."

"I won't do anything rash," Bjorn said. Not again. He leaned over Helgi, "I'll be back, my love."

Helgi looked up at Bjorn and gave a quick nod.

"Don't move!" the old healer grabbed the sides of Helgi's face and held him still. "I said not to move, yes I did."

_I should be staying with him. Fuck me, fuck Alfhild, fuck Ivar. Just, fuck._ Bjorn climbed off the wagon as Edla ran past him with a bucket full of steaming water.

"Good! Gangly girl, place it here."

Alfhild smiled and walked back toward her hall, through the field of corpses. She took no care where she stepped, trotting over the dead as if they were mud. "Bjorn, Bjorn. What am I going to do with you, and all these people?"

"I did not think there was any question, you sided with me against Ivar."

"I did no such thing," she spat on one of the dead outriders as she passed him. "These fools dishonored me and my home. I protected my name, nothing more."

"You killed all these men."

"You think Ivar will care once I give him your head?"

"And what of the old ways? We're your guests, you said as much yourself."

"I never said I'd kill you on my land. I'm no fool, I'd drag you to the ruins of Giertvedt first, then cut off your head. Even Noble Tyr would find no wrong in that."

_Vile bitch, just as father said_. "And yet, you're telling me this, why?"

"Because, you're my guest. Besides, if that's the way I choose to go, who's going to stop me? You? You look weak, and your head is still in that cart with your toy freak."

Bjorn closed his eyes and took a deep breath before he allowed himself to speak. "I wouldn't do that, were I you."

"And why not?"

"Because, what would you do then? I think I know something about you, Alfhild. Something you've been trying to hide."

"And what would that be?"

"You're dying."

Alfhild stopped and looked to him, her eyes narrowing. "Careful what you say, boy. Or I'll take your tongue, before I give you to the king."

"It's why you've been so eager to face Rokr, isn't it? You want a fight, a true fight. One to guarantee your spot beside the gods in Valhalla."

"All of us want a seat by the gods."

"But it's more with you, I followed you, when you left after finding out Rokr died. You cried. It took me awhile to understand why. He was your last hope, wasn't he?"

Alfhild stood as tall as she could, still two heads smaller than Bjorn. Her fingers tapping the top of his weapon. Bjorn stepped back, visions of what Alfhild could do with that axe flashing through his mind. "It would have been beautiful," she said. Her shoulders slumped. "Something the gods themselves would take notice and remember until Ragnarok. The Holmganga of the bears. The battle to determine Odin's favor. A thousand skalds would be singing of it."

"And Ivar took that from you."

"Not just fucking Ivar. You. Rokr died to save you."

"So, what's your plan then. How long," he looked around and dropped his voice low into a whisper. "How long do you have left?"

She snarled. "My healers all say I have a year, I'll fight for two. And if I do, likely too weak to hold an axe steady. And I am not dying that way."

"You won't want to face me, you'd win. And there's no honor in trying to lose."

"One-Eye would know. I'd get sent to some far-off corner where I could never even see the gods."

"Then, I'd say we make the best use of the time you have left."

"What do you think I've been doing? I tried to take back my mill. I failed. I set up the duel with Rokr, and he's dead. Winter's already here, no time to campaign."

"A full campaign? No. But you want to go down in history? You want the skalds to sing of you? You want the gods to take notice?"

"Of course."

"Then help me. Leave this place in the hands of someone you trust and come with me. We will live out in the between roads. We will raid for what we need and hunt down Ivar and his men."

She gave her large terrifying smile but shook her head. "I can't do that, no matter how I wish. I am the Jarlkona, these lands are mine. And these people are mine. I protect them to the end, that is the way of things. I'd be leaving it all defenseless."

Of course, she thinks that way, this is Alfhild. How do I try to get her to see giving up her duties as part of the old ways? "What if you were no longer jarlkona?"

"Give up my position? Never, I won this land with my one hands. I slew the Jarl Harrwyn and all his sons when I was a girl. I took the title as my own, and it will be mine until I die."

"You can't have it all, Alfhild. You will die cold and alone in your hall. Or you will die in battle and glory. One last great raid, against the king of the Danes himself. Maybe you won't be the Jarlkona here. But," Bjorn took his knife and slid it across his palm and felt his warm blood drip down his hand to his elbow. "Come with me and I'll say the words here and now. You will be my Jarlkona. You will lead us. I can think of no one better. No one with more experience."

"You'll replace your brother with me?"

"Fror is gone, where to I don't know. You are here, and you are the strongest person I know. Even Ivar said he feared you." Not exactly, the words he used. "Jarlkona Alfhild, Valkyrie-Born, and Maiden of the Bears. Lead me and whatever men come with us. Be the scourge on the king that caused us both such misery."

The paint and blood around Alfhild's eyes made her look more monster than human. Some evil jötunn of madness and strength. Her smile widened and she took her own axe and sliced her palm.

"Swear it," she grabbed Bjorn's bleeding hand.

"Witness me gods. I am Bjorn the Breaker, son of Jarl Giermundr of Giertvedt. By the edge of my axe, by the steel of my helm. By Odin's ring on my arm, by the wood of my ship. By the blood of my life. Hear me. From this day to my dying day. Alfhild the Valkyrie-Born, Slayer of Harrwyn, Maiden of the Bears will be my Jarlkona. My life is hers, to lead me in battle and glorious death."

"Witness me gods," Alfhild said. "By axe and shield. By white hair and old bones. Bjorn the Breaker shall be my huskarl. To take his share of my plunder, to live under my protection. Through no home, through no food. Bjorn is forever mine, until Ivar lies dead at our feet and we meet again in Valhalla."

She released his hand and licked the blood off her palm. "Go back to your wagon my huskarl and get your rest. We will leave tomorrow morning. And I'm not taking your ergi with me. If you want I'll send one of my thralls to you tonight. I don't think yours will be ready to be fucked tonight."

"No, I'm fine."

"Suit yourself." Alfhild went into her hall. "I have work to do."

Bjorn watched the door shut in his face. What had he done? At least, Helgi and Bester would be safe here. Away from the violence of that he was about to winter through.

He headed back to the wagon. Inside Edla and Bester held Helgi's hands as the healer finished up his wrappings.

"That's it, then, yes. You'll want to replace them daily, with warm water and poultices. Yes. And be sure to keep the charms on him. Best to give a sacrifice too, of course. I find Thor prefers goats in this situation, if you can't afford to offer cattle, of course."

"It will be done," Bjorn said and looked down at his lovers wrappings. It covered his mouth with only a small opening for him to breath and get food. Dried tear lines streaked down his face.

"Then, I'm finished here. Good luck to you and your ergi. Send for me or another healer if he gets the rot. Yes. Need to watch out for rot. Properly clean him, yes."

"I'll take care of it," Edla said. "Thank you."

Bester handed the man several coins and Bjorn lifted him out of the wagon.

"Well?" Bester turned to Bjorn. "What is happening with Alfhild?"

"We're going to raid Ivar through the winter. With as many men who will go with us."

"And us?"

"You'll be allowed to stay here. Now, please, I'd like to be alone with Helgi. For the night, if you could."

"Of course," Bester held out his arm for Edla to follow him.

She kissed Helgi's forehead before she departed. Finally, Bjorn was alone with his love. He laid down beside him and held him in his arms. It was going to be alright. He didn't know how, but when the winter was done they'd be together. He swore it before all the gods he knew.

"I love you." He whispered into Helgi's ear. "Whatever happens, that won't change." He felt Helgi's body shudder and remain silent. They lay in silence, until finally sleep took him.


	13. Mission 12: Winter Witch

For the life of her, Alfhild could not remember the last time she had this much fun. The snow fell around her and she shivered beneath her bearskin cloak. But she felt alive. Alfhild wiped the blood of Ivar's scouts of her axe and then tucked it back into her belt, before she turned back toward her two prisoners.

"He'll find you," one of them said before spitting at her feet.

"Maybe," Alfhild smiled, "But he'll find your corpses first. Agni."

Agni Firstborn slit the scout's throat before tossing the corpse to the ground. He smiled as he watched the blood drip form the corpse. The big man went to the nect prisoner only for Agni Lastborn to get their first. The younger brother pressed his blade to the man's throat and nodded for Alfhild to give the order.

"Last chance, any information on Ivar's food stores. It grows boring robbing peasants."

"We don't know anything," the second scout's voice cracked as he held back tears. Pathetic. "We were just sent to find out for the army-" the man's eyes went wide as the blade cut into his throat. Blood spurted down his shirt with each of his last heartbeats.

"Fucking hell, Lastborn!" Alfhild said. "He was talking."

"Sorry, Jarlkona," he said. "Got excited."

"I understand this is difficult for you to grasp. But I can't get information from them if you murder them!"

"He said he didn't know nothing," Lastborn said. "He was only out looking for us."

Alfhild snarled and the man backed down. Bravery the Agnis had, but they were not of the old ways. They didn't understand the proper way to act around your betters. Normally she'd punish him. But she needed every man she had. Only twenty huskarls offered to come with her on this winter campaign. Only seven her own, the other thirteen were Giertvedt men. Those that survived Ivar's attack, or who sailed with Rokr.

They served her, for now. But she was no fool. The Giertvedt men may have sworn the oaths, but they did so for Bjorn. The Agnis were her men. Little more than cutthroats they might be, who only agreed because they saw the chance to pillage and rape their way through winter. But they were hers.

"Alfhild!" Bjorn's deep voice sounded from his perch up a tree. "Alfhild!"

"Stop shouting rassragr!" she shouted up to him. "Get down here, or you'll warn everyone where we are."

Bjorn crept down the tree overlooking the road, scowling. "I'm not a rassragr," Bjorn said as he dropped before her.

"I don't think anyone here believes that," Alfhild said. The Agnis snickered behind her. Bjorn stood rigged. Pity. If Bjorn lashed out against his jarl, that would give her all she needed to deal with him. Remove the possible threat to her right here. But the man just took it. Like he had no pride at all. Pathetic.

"We don't have time for this," Bjorn said through clenched teeth. "An army is coming."

"What?"

"On the main road, a large force a hundred fighting men at least."

Where was Ivar going? That would be about the most amount of men he could bring to bare in the winter. "Gather the men, we're heading back to camp."

Bjorn nodded his scarred face and ran toward the others.

_See that Giermundr? See your son do whatever I say? Bet your fucking hating this._

They returned to the camp, or at least what they called their camp. The winter had truly come, and being this close to the Harald's Hall they did not dare have any large pyre. Men covered themselves in layers of furs huddled around the cooking pots. Thralls and servants did their best to cook and clean weapons, but with only the small hidden fires they worked slow and poor.

By the gods she loved it.

The thrall that hung around Bjorn came to the huskarl's carrying a large pot. The girl set it down and grabbed a bowl, dipping it into the pot. As Alfhild and her warriors circled her the slave took the bowl and handed it to Bjorn.

Alfhild snatched the bowl from her huskarl's hands and glared at him. Bjorn realized the mistake and stepped back, hands raised. "I'm the jarlkona," Alfhild said to Bjorn and the slave girl. "I will not remind you again."

The slave met her eye, she had a hardness to her. Good. Alfhild always enjoyed breaking her new thralls. The Giermundrssons had clearly been too sweet to their slaves. A thrall needed to realize that the only way out of their position was to please her. And angering her? Well that meant she could do whatever she pleased. _Please, thrall girl. Say something to anger me_.

Bjorn tugged at the thralls arm, and the girl glanced to his concerned face. "Sorry, jarlkona," she said before nodding her head. "It will not happen again."

"It won't if you want to keep your hand." Alfhild walked past the slave and sipped at the bowl. Warm. The thralls had their ways to cook with only the small hidden fires she allowed. Must have something to do with them waking up so early to prepare. She walked to the center of her camp munching on the carrot and mushroom in the stew.

"Listen here," she said as she tossed the empty bowl to the ground. The camp surrounded her, with one of the thralls scooping up her bowl. "Our scouting had results for once. Ivar has left his hall, with his guard at his back and more. How many did you see Bjorn?"

"Over a hundred," he said.

"Over a fucking hundred! You know what that means?"

"Harald's Hall is open," Fafnir, one of her huskarl's said, his eyes gleamed and his grin revealing his gap tooth. Likely thinking about all the riches Ivar left behind, and all the women.

"It means that Ivar is off to fight something, something big. Some force that has him worried. It means he'll be sending scouts out to watch for him. It means we are following them."

The crowd grumbled. The huskarls gave each other side glances as though her age had taken her vision.

"But," Fafnir said again. "Harald's Hall is open."

"I knew you weren't a clever man, but you don't need to repeat yourself."

Fafnir's grin turned sour right quick. "The richest city in Daneland is open for the plundering. And you want us to do what? Go pick a fight with an army we can't beat." The crowd murmured their agreement.

"Huskarl Fafnir," Bjorn smiled and stepped to the man. "The Ironheart, our Jarl has spoken. Besides we couldn't hope to hold-"

"I don't think I was talking to you at all, Breaker," Fafnir said. "If you are even worthy of being named."

Bjorn opened his mouth to defend himself, before his eyes grew thin. "What do you mean by that, friend Ironheart?"

"Bjorn, shut your cockhole and back away," Alfhild stepped between the two.

"I'm not an er-"

"Shut it," she said without taking her eyes from Fafnir. "You have something to say, Ironheart?"

"I reckon I do. I've been watching you Alfhild. You were always a moon howling bitch, but you were a cunning moon howling bitch. But I see no cunning in you these days. Tricked by a coward to burn supplies that you already had in your hands. Picking fights with the king himself. I joined you because I thought we would get something from this. Fresh pick of the loot that we take from the dead. Riches won through the glory of victory. And here we have it. Harald's Hall. The seat of kings in our grasp and you plan to run away?"

"I plan to make certain Ivar dies."

"Why? Ivar has done you barely a grievance. He hasn't done me none. Nor any of my boys. You're not thinking. You just want to lash out. You just want to get yourself a glorious death. You only want your name sung as you pass."

"And so what if I do?"

"I don't want to get taken with you! I'm tired of hiding in the snow. I'm tired of waking up worried my arms will rot from the cold. I want a hot meal and a woman. I want Harald's Hall."

"Then it's a good thing you're no jarl."

"Aye," he sneered. "A good thing is it? What say you men? What would you rather see? A city open for plunder with enough wealth to see us all fat and rich for all our days, or weeks of cold and death?"

The men didn't say anything. But they didn't need to. Only one moved to stand behind Alfhild, the ergi-loving fool.

"Pathetic," Alfhild smiled. "That rassragr is charging to battle without complaint about his empty stomach or his tired ass. But you, great Fafnir Ironheart. You can't even keep up with him."

"You dare compare me to him?"

"Not just the ergi. You are so weak, so unmanly, you can't raid longer than an old woman. So tell me, Fafnir Ironass. How are you any better than that rassragr? He at least can see glory before him!"

"I won't be insulted by a half-mad witch." Fafnir snarled and pulled out his sword.

Alfhild laughed, her shield rose up before Fafnir could strike. "Well look at that, you're not a complete coward after all."

"To Hela with you!" he hacked at her again. This time she caught his blade on the rim of her shield. A quick rotation of her shoulder and the sword went wide, opening Fafnir's body. She cleaved her axe up beneath her shield and felt it hit his hand.

He screamed as his sword and three fingers fell to the ground.

"Pick it up!" Alfhild pointed toward the blade.

"What?" Fafnir said. _What a fucking idiot_.

"I said 'pick it up.' You want to lose the rest of your hand?"

"No, Jarlkona." Fafnir reached for his sword, while trying to keep eye contact. His muscles tensed, ready to jump away if she so much as moved to strike him. _That's right, Ironass, look at me in fear. If you survive this winter. I will kill you, before Odin and Tyr. By my axe and shield. I will kill you. But not today, today you fight for me. But I will not let one of my men question me or threaten me. They need to know, going against their Jarl means death. That is the old ways. That is the right ways._

"Anyone else have any problems harassing Ivar's force? No? Then move!"

* * *

One thing that Alfhild knew as always true the more men you have marching together the slower they'll go. By the second day Alfhild's small force overtook Ivar's army. Despite the army taking the main roads while Alfhild moved among the trees, trudging through snow that reached past her knees.

By nightfall on the third day they saw the fires of Ivar's force behind them. And if Alfhild squinted through the forest, fires in the distance of whatever enemy Ivar now faced.

"We hold here!' she raised her hand for her troops to stop.

The sigh of relief rippled through her men from the hardest huskarl to the lowest thrall. Trudging through snow for a full day is no easy task. And the men celebrated as they set up the camp. The thralls moved to start the evening meal or helped Sigvhat down from his horse. The old man grumbled as the thralls held him steady.

Alfhild let the Brothers Agni set up the nightly watch. Instead she looked to the weapons, making certain that each held their edge. She started with her own axes and dagger. Well crafted, two axes gifted her from her late husband. And a dagger taken from a fallen jarl during Ivar's rebellion. Odd how that all worked out. When Ivar rose up against that kid fucker Harald she had sailed with him. He had been the noble seeming king, one that anyone could see honor in following. And now he had become some murderous bastard, sending assassins out to kill those he dislikes and breaking guest's right at will. Disgraceful.

As she made her way through sharpening the javelins dinner was finished. She performed her duties making the blessings over the food and gave the calls to the gods. She made special notice to Tyr and Odin, as they seemed more likely to guide those harassing their enemy. Thor and Freyja usually did not give much notice to those using such tactics.

After they ate she went to her tent and tried to sleep. She laid on her back pulling the furs over her and stared at the cloths above her. Fuck it felt cold. She needed to sleep. One never fought as good when they don't rest. She closed her eyes and tried to make her body relax.

Her hand moved up to her breast. She felt around the underside, massaging her old skin until she felt it. The lumps. Hard to the touch, here alone she could feel them in her. When she first felt them she had asked Sigvhat to cut them out. He had shaken his head, too late he told her. When there is only one or two cutting them out may keep her moving. But when they'd grown this large? Too late. She was a dead woman walking.

She pressed into the lump of flesh again, until it hurt. Fuck. This was no way for a warrior to go. She'd lose her mind. That's what Sigvhat told her. Before the end, taking a drink would cause her to bleed. Perhaps it was already happening? How was she to know? Men had called her moon crazed since she was a young maiden with the taste of her first kill in her mouth. That hadn't changed. But perhaps they were right now. Facing down a king with twenty men for the sake of your enemies? That wasn't a thing a wise jarl would do.

Perhaps the sickness had already claimed her? She did not know how long she spent pressing into her illness, but the pain grew too much. She needed something to calm her. She crawled out of her tent and found the one with Sigvhat's horse tied to the tree beside it. A blanket covered the animal, to protect it from the snows that fell through the night.

"Sigvhat!" she said as she opened the tent. "Sigvhat I need you!"

"Hrmm?" the healer said. His head moving toward her though his eyes didn't open. His head went back down.

"No! Wake up! Sigvhat I will cut off your fucking hands."

"Then who will get you medicine? Yes? Such a vile little girl." The healer opened his eyes and shook himself awake.

Alfhild grimaced, she had told him not to call her that a dozen times or more. Yet he persisted in his annoying childish terms. He was not that much older than she. If he had not been so skilled, Alfhild would not have put up with his insolence for so long. "Well? It hurts again. I can't sleep."

"And you think I can make it go away. Poof? No. No."

"Give me something, Sigvhat."

The healer stretched and looked through his bags. "I can make you something, I think. Yes. But it will take time. Go try and sleep and I will find you when it is ready."

"I told you, I can't sleep."

"Yes, but what else is there for you to do? Ehh? Go try and sleep, my child."

Alfhild crawled out of the tent cursing to herself. Instead of returning to her tent she wandered around the edge of her camp, muttering oaths to the gods as she walked. Praying for each to grant her a worthy death. She tried to go through each god she knew, even the obscure children of the gods. Once she finished the Aesir gods, she tried to go through the Vanir. Just to be certain. Fuck it was hard remembering them all. What did Gullveig desire? "Gullveig of wand and fire. The thrice reborn, and thrice burned."

"Who's there?" A large shape stood in the dark and brandished a longaxe .

"Me," Alfhild walked toward the figure and squinting.

"Jarlkona?" Bjorn rested his weapon on his shoulder. "What are you doing?"

"Preparing for the battle, Breaker, why aren't you asleep?"

"My turn on look out. I figure anyway, one of your men just kicked me awake and told me to take watch."

"Firstborn should have told each person their jobs for the night. Did he talk to you?"

"No."

"Then someone is shirking their jobs. Who was it?"

"What will you do with them?"

"I will not have useless people among my huskarls. He will be dealt with."

Bjorn nodded. "I'm sorry, I didn't see his face. Or at least, I was too tired to take much note of it."

"You're almost as useless. At least you're doing the job given you." Alfhild sat down and stared at the fires of Ivar's army. A moment later Bjorn followed, they watched the forest. With only the sounds of whatever critters crawled around and the wind as it whistled through the branches.

"Jarlkona," Bjorn said after some time. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Might as well."

"What are we doing out here? All we know is Ivar took his force this direction. What is going on?"

"Just what you said. Ivar took his force this way, we're harassing him."

"Fair, but he has over a hundred men with him. More just as like. A hundred to our twenty."

"Aye."

"And we're going to be attacking him, are we?"

"You have a problem with that, ergi?"

Bjorn grunted. "I'm not an ergi."

"Heh, if you say so."

"Why do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"I serve you, willingly, I'm going to follow you probably to my death tomorrow. But all you do is insult and prod."

"Oh, does my huskarl not like how I treat you lot? Think I'm too mean on you? Probably don't like how I handled Fafnir."

"No, he raised his weapon against his jarl. If you killed him, you'd still be blameless."

"Good, you're at least familiar with the old ways."

"I'm my father's son. Of course, I know the old ways. I've followed the old ways all my life."

"Hah! Says the one who tried to butcher the king in his hall."

"That's different," Bjorn folded his arms in front of his chest. "We needed to, or Ivar would have killed us."

"And that means you piss on your vows to Odin? That you get to act like a throat slitter in an alley? Giermundr would never have stooped to that."

"True, and Giermundr's dead."

"Better dead with his honor unbroken! Do you think we'd be here, if Giermundr hadn't kept to the old ways? If it wasn't for Giermundr's honor, then Rokr's honor I'd have handed you to Ivar without a second's thought. But not for you and your brother."

"I suppose I am thankful I lived with better men."

"Much better."

"So you'd keep to the old ways, even if doing so would get not just you, but your home and the people you live over killed?"

"Of course. If you give up your code as soon as it become difficult, you never truly kept to it. Besides, the only reason I put up with all the troubles of being Jarlkona is because of my oaths. Every little freeman with all their little fucking problems. He sold me a lame mare. She cheated on me with my brother. No, he maimed the hare himself. And I never touched the man. Back and forth every fucking day. But I promised to guard them and uphold their oaths. Do you have any idea how many times I dreamed of carving all of them up?"

"I suppose that answers it then."

"Answers what?"

"Why you act as you do. Why you insult and dishonor even your own. You hate us, don't you? You hate us all."

Alfhild watched her breath as it hung like mist in the air. "I suppose I do."

"You ever wonder why Giermundr beat you? Why he held the mill at the end, why all those warriors jumped at the opportunity to go with Maeva on Viking?"

"Because Giermundr was a great man."

"True, but more than that. You are clever and cunning. You lead men to great victories, easily Giermundr's equal there. Yet, he kept winning."

"Why did he keep winning, then oh wise one?"

"He had more men than you. Because he treated his huskarl's like family. And his lowest warriors better than you treat your huskarls."

"So, I'm just supposed to be kind to all them, then? The cowards and the useless? Forgive them? Sounds like the drivel those Christians spew."

"No, of course you don't. Those that prove themselves untrustworthy, Giermundr slaughtered. When a warrior of his hid before a battle, he had the man killed. A jarl must do those things to keep face. So everyone knows their place."

"Then how am I different?"

"Because he treated them with honor, until they proved themselves dishonorable. You treat everyone dishonorably, until they hate you."

"Not all my men hate me."

"No?"

"Magnus the Slighter didn't. The brothers Agni don't."

"But they don't love you. Did you ever have anyone, ever, who felt true loyalty to you? Or were they all just afraid you'd kill them?"

"So long as they stayed in line, what does it matter?"

"It matters, because, if there were anyone else that I thought had the stones to face Ivar, I wouldn't be fighting beside you. I'd go to them instead. Imagine how many warriors seeking hearth passed you up. Think about how much of Giermundr's land you would have taken if you had as many warriors as he did, or more?"

"Why are we talking about this shit? My men are with me, tomorrow we'll kill Ivar and be done with this whole business. Why are we bringing up your imaginings of how things might be?"

"Because, you sat beside me. Because I think you're lonely."

"We're sitting here together, because you're so stupid, you let anyone take advantage of you. And I can't trust that big a fool alone on watch."

That got the rassragr quiet, he continued to watch the woods in silence.

"Well wise one, if you're so smart, tell me. What did Giermundr's niceness get him? Hmm? When I visited his funeral I didn't see any of those brave warriors he had with him. I saw a near empty mead hall."

"Well, father angered some of his men before the end. He made his mistakes, took a few women he shouldn't've."

"Hah! The Troll-killer slew something else did he?"

"Aye, it got bad before the end. Got to be he couldn't see a woman without moving on her. But more than that, I think the men were afraid of Ivar."

"Not worthy huskarls then, were they? I would not want such types at my side."

"Do you truly think the Brothers Agni will stay for your funeral?"

"Even Mighty Giermundr doesn't live up to your standards then, boy. Why should I try then?"

"Because, you have no family. No friends. No one who supports you. Whether you die in battle or in a bed, you will have no one give the sacrifices to the gods or honor your memory. You'll be dumped in a ditch and left to rot."

"No one would fucking dare."

"You think so? Who do you have left that you trust, the brothers Agni? They'll be gone the moment they realize you won't be waking up. They're less loyal than wild hounds. What are you, the fourth Jarl they've served?"

"Thereabouts. And your second, I would think. Halfway there."

"That ain't the same. I heard they killed their last jarl because they wanted his horses."

"And you tried to kill your king."

"That's not-"

"It is the same. You didn't fight him in a holmganga, you didn't start a war. You dressed up some whores to entice him and handed them weapons. You are without honor and without a brain, thinking that would work. So spare me your thoughts on honor. I don't want to hear another word from-"

"Jarlkona, silence," Bjorn grabbed her arm.

"You will unhand me you-"

"Look!"

Alfhild squinted where he pointed. Gods take her eyes, why did everything come harder with age? "What am I supposed to be looking at?"

"The fires," he hissed.

She focused on the twinkling light of Ivar's camp. Wait. The light did not shift with the winds. A shadow stepped before it. Swaying back and forth with every step. Some drew near. Fuck.

Alfhild crawled away from Bjorn to the weapons she sharpened the day before. Bjorn moved away from her, his weapon clenched in his hands. Alfhild grabbed an axe and shield, and moved toward the shapes moving through the night.

"See?" a voice said somewhere in the darkness before them. It sounded young, a man barely bloodied most like. "Nothing."

"I'm telling you, I heard something," another older voice said. "And be quiet. We don't know who's out here."

"We do know," the first voice said. "No one. You're hearing things again."

"Would you be silent, I'm trying to listen."

Alfhild crept through the snow, matching the sound of her footsteps with the men that stumbled close to their tents. Four of them, by her count. Two in the lead talking so loud. The other two held back, one had a horn bouncing from his neck. A proper scouting party.

"Listen all you want, you won't hear anyone, because no one is here."

"I'm hearing you!"

"Now who's being loud?"

"Gods, give me patience for this fool."

"Alfhild!" a withered voice rose from the tents. "Little girl, where are you? Alfhild, the charms are ready! Yes."

"Fuck," Alfhild charged at the two warriors in the front, as they looked to Sigvhat, moving through the trees.

A roar sounded opposite her as Bjorn charged the two men in the back.

"It's her!" the younger warrior said. "The Winter Witch. The Valkyrie-Born!"

"I know!" the older hissed as he lifted his shield to catch Alfhild's strike. "Help me, halfwit!"

_Winter witch? Is that what they call me now? Who would sing songs for a witch? Fuck that._

The older one blocked two more of her strikes low then high. All while keeping his footing despite the snow and overgrown woods. He had some skill. He could be a problem, if he and the boy knew a thing about fighting together. The younger warrior drew a sword and rushed behind the older, as though expecting the older man to fight for him. A stupid move, as though he had never faced a blade before.

Alfhild hissed as she slammed her weapon into the shield. She caught the scout's sword on her own then pushed it into the man's shield. It swung to the other side. She struck once more at the new opening. But the man jumped back. It would have been a clean dodge did he not stumble over the young fool behind him.

The two fell. Alfhild laughed as she slammed her axe down at the tangled men trying to drag themselves out of the snow. One of them screamed as she continued to chop into him. The young man got to his feet.

"Stay back, hag." Even in the dark, Alfhild could see his sword shaking in his hand.

Well this kid's life was forfeit. That's good to get out of the way quick. She glanced to the back, where the Bjorn attacked the two men that hung back. She couldn't see any movement. "Breaker! You still alive?"

"I'm still here," the brutish shape of the man pushed himself off the ground. He brushed the snow from his shoulders as he walked to the kid's flank. "Bastard try to take me to the ground."

"And the hornblower?"

"First I killed, poor fool tried to signal before taking the time to defend himself."

"Perfect."

"You stay back, too." The kid swung his sword to Bjorn.

"Hey now," the Breaker swatted the sword aside with his longaxe. "No need for that, you're beat. Just put the sword down."

"No. No. Stay back." The boy swung his sword wildly between the two of them.

As he moved back to face Bjorn, Alfhild moved. She slammed her shield into the man's face. As he reeled, she smashed the pommel of her axe into his face.

Bjorn whistled. "Clean."

"Pick him up."

"He alive?"

"Find out." Alfhild stomped back to the tents. Sigvhat stood wrapped in blankets. A bowl in his hands. "Fucking idiot. Nearly got us found."

"Yes. Yes. You can thank me for bringing you worthy enemies later."

"That's not what I meant."

"Open up. You eat this," he pushed the bowl into her hands. Alfhild sniffed at the mashed contents. It smelled worse than that time she killed a man by cutting open his bowels.

"What is it?"

"Some root, will the name matter to you?"

"No," she took a large bite and nearly vomited it back up. "Tastes worse than it smells."

"It's supposed to. Makes the sickness want to leave. Yes." Sigvhat watched her, making certain she ate every bite "The root is filled with the magic of elves. Very rare. And I prayed to all the gods I know. And even invoked the names of the fire giants. It should keep you safe from the colds. And help with your sickness, to keep your strength."

Bjorn grunted behind her, she could hear him setting something heavy down into the snow. "Is the boy alive?"

"Knocked stupid, but he's alive."

"Tie him. Sigvhat, go look to the prisoner."

"You eat it all, then. Yes? Very rare root. Do not waste it."

"I'm eating the fucking thing. Go do as I say." Alfhild finished the last of the bowl, forcing the rotten smelling mush down her throat. Sigvhat muttered to himself as he pressed on the boy, wiping away the blood from his forehead where she whacked him. A lot of blood, but that was common with the forehead. Sigvhat pressed on the boy's forehead and muttered some prayers to Freyja in his ear.

The kid groaned. "Wha-where?"

"Hello kid," Alfhild pulled Sigvhat away from him. "I hope you enjoyed your sleep."

"Shit."

"You and me are going to do some talking. You know who I am?"

"Yes," the boy looked away from her. Alfhild grabbed him beneath the chin and forced him to look her in the eyes. "Who am I?"

"Jarlkona Alfhild the Valkyrie-Born."

"And who's that?" she cranked his head to Bjorn.

"Bjorn the Breaker."

"You been bloodied and named yet?"

The boy looked almost embarrassed as he squeaked out a little "No."

"We're both respected names. Feared names. So I don't need to tell you how fucked you are, do I?"

"No."

"You don't need to toy with the boy, Jarlkona. He's about to piss himself. Let him have his dignity."

Alfhild turned to Bjorn with a sneer. "How you're Giermundr's son I'll never know. As soft as fresh snow."

"Just don't enjoy this part as much as you."

"Then you'll learn to. Come here. Every time the boy doesn't tell me what I want, cut him."

"No!" the boy's eyes grew wide and he thrashed his legs.

"If he yells again, kill him. But make it slow. I want to hear the gurgle."

The huge man stepped beside the kid with a sigh, brandishing his axe.

"I'll talk, I'll talk. Please."

"Well, let's start with some simple questions. Where is Ivar going in a hurry?"

"You… you don't know?"

"Bjorn."

The axe cut across his shoulder. A shallow cut, it'd leave a scar but nothing Sigvhat couldn't treat. But the boy acted like he was dying. "No, no please! The Easterners. They set a force in secret. Travelling at night, moving through the rivers. They've landed not far from here. When Ivar found out he gathered all the men he could to go drive them off."

"Easterners?" Bjorn repeated, the oaf adding nothing to the conversation.

"They've never come this far into our lands. Even their diplomats move by land and over bridges. How'd they learn about our riverways?"

"Word is they have a guide. It… the men are saying they have a Dane with them. Ivar thought you were working with them."

"Why the fuck would I be working with some honorless Easterners? Haughty bastards are no better than the Christians. Worse even, I saw what they did to those who they defeated in battle. Wouldn't even kill them clean, taking their noses and ears so they enter Odin's Hall as freaks."

"It's just, the one who leads them. People are saying it's Fror Giermundrsson the Deceiver," the boy glanced at Bjorn and the at his axe.

"Fror is alive?" Bjorn lowered his weapon.

Fuck. "Remember your oath, Breaker," Alfhild warned as she clenched her weapon tighter.

Bjorn did not seem to hear her. "I'm not alone. My brother." The big man turned toward her and swept her into his arms.

"The fuck are you doing?" she hissed as the big man buried his face into her shoulder and sobbed. She sighed as Bjorn's tears mixed with the wet of the snow. Her fingers twitched around her weapon. It would do no one any good to see the pair of them like this. Bjorn could afford to look soft. But Alfhild had built he entire reputation on being the hardest one of all. But as she tried to pry herself away, she thought of her son. How would she react to hearing her family was alive again?

"Bjorn," she said. "Let me loose, and go make some sacrifice to Gefion and thank her for the gift of family and luck."

"Right," Bjorn's heavy arms untangled her. "Thank you, Jarlkona."

As the brute stomped away, Alfhild turned back to the boy. "Well, thank you boy." She swung down and struck the prisoner in the back of the neck. "You may have just cost me a shit ton of trouble." The corpse did not apologize. Fucking selfish.

* * *

By the next morning all the camp knew who led the army opposing Ivar, and what sort of men were fighting in it. As she feared the men who joined with Bjorn spoke to themselves. When she walked closer to check on the weapons they hushed. Planning on abandoning her for their old master? Would they attack her before they did?

Could this whole thing have been some great trick from Fror? Ivar to be defeated in battle, and Alfhild stabbed in the back by men she trusted. His two greatest enemies cut in one stroke. No. No one is that clever. And there's no way Bjorn could act so well in hearing his brother lived.

But even unplanned, these faithless bastards would cut her down if she struck against Fror. And she would. The man sided with slant eyed foreigners who worshiped an ever-consuming fat man. No. she could not side with Fror. She could not ride with the monsters that eradicated the Rus.

But then she must fight with Ivar, and he'd proven himself unfit to be king. A slant-eye you'd expect to send assassins. They did not know the Old Ways, you couldn't ecpect them to follow it. But Ivar? He'd turned more foul than even Harald. Alfhild finished eating and searched for the brothers Agni. She found them laughing at one of her newer warriors and pushing him into performing the axe dance.

"I've never done it before." He said.

"All the better reason to try it now, then." Firstborn laughed and handed him the blade. "You keep it up in the air as long as you can, alright?"

"Then when we think you have it we'll throw more axes up. It'll be easy."

"No, I'm not. What if I drop one of them? I'll hurt myself."

"You'll get more than hurt in battle."

"Exactly." Alfhild said. The brothers turned to her looking for all the world like a dog caught stealing food off the table. "We don't want new blood spilled before we even get to the fighting. Boy, put the axe down and get ready for battle."

He sighed in relief and quickly tucked his axe into his belt. "Of course, my Jarlkona." He nodded to her before running to one of the horses.

"Wanted to see the arseling drop one," Agni Lastborn frowned. "It'd be funny, watching him lose a finger or two."

"Not for today. You two, get the men ready. When Ivar and Fror clash I want to be in position to smash into their flanks."

"On it," Firstborn said.

"Which ones we attacking?" Lastborn said. "Ivar or the Easterners?"

"Just get the men ready."

Lastborn opened his mouth before his brother grabbed his arm and shook his head. The Agnis nodded and went to their business, yelling at some of the less skilled riders to grab their weapons.

They wouldn't be able to make a strong formation, most of these men were huskarls. Used to acting as vanguards and elite warriors that moved about the shield wall. Or young green men hungry for war. They may have gotten named and bloodied from raiding half a winter, but testing your metal in a shield wall? That was something else. They'd go in loose. Enough space between to get a good run and smash into a flank.

If they don't move fast enough the enemy might set a strong line against them. But it wouldn't matter. They could all die so long as they crash into the enemy line. Odin demanded blood, she would give him blood. He would see that she was the truly his greatest servant. Even if they're torn to pieces, men would whisper the name Alfhild Valkyrie-Born with fear.

_Odin, grant me your gift today, and I will paint the snows red. _

Ivar's force moved toward the enemy first. Likely for fear after losing his scouts the night before. Alfhild led her men through the forest, just out of sight of the army. Funny how easy that is to do. A hundred men armored in clinking mail and singing battle prayers are louder than a thunderstorm. Even when Alfhild lost sight of the main road she never lost track of where they were.

Before midday, the two armies met each other and Alfhild got her first look at the squint-eyes. Still tucked back within the safety of the treeline, Alfhild started a count. Ivar outnumbered them, by how much it was hard for her to say. A few of them rode on horseback with gargantuan bows strapped on their backs. If what the kid she questioned had the right of it. They sailed through the narrow rivers, the Easterners ships couldn't do that. Not even with Fror to guide them. Must've been a pain in the arse to get the horses on the ships.

Only to use them here, not good ground for cavalry. The trees and waters were too close. Would pin them in if they tried to maneuver around the battlefield. No, it looked like the Easterners were well and truly fucked.

"It's him," Bjorn said. "He's alive."

Sure enough, one Dane stood with the Easterners. His armor and height made him easy to spot. He appeared to be arguing with two of the slant eyes. _Oh, poor Fror. Did the foreign fools not listen to you? Serves you right._

"It's gonna be a slaughter," Firstborn said.

"Well, perhaps Deceiver has an idea," Lastborn said. "Mug of mead says he's gonna try something crazy."

"They aren't listening to him," Alfhild laughed. "I'll take that bet."

"He'll come up with something," Bjorn said, his tone not allowing for argument. "He always does."

"The fuck are they doing?" Lastborn pointed toward four of the easterners that rode out before their army. Their spears pointed toward their enemy, then dipped low. In a smooth motion, each of them removed their helmets. One of them nudged their horse a step closer to Ivar's force and began shouting something in their strange tongue.

"They offering terms?" Firstborn's brow furrowed. "Never seen anyone offer terms like that. And it's not like Ivar would accept them either."

The squint-eye finished his shouting and kicked his horse to step back in line with the other four. The next of them rode a step forward and started shouting as well.

"If this is Fror's plan, it's the weirdest one I ever saw," Lastborn said as the second one finished his shout and went back in line with the others.

The third rode forward.

"Loose!" shouted Ivar. Before the third had a chance to open his mouth a volley of arrows unleashed from Ivar's army. The riders screamed as the bolts slammed into their armor and horses. They pulled on the reins of their horses but the animals bucked in fear.

"Loose!"

One horse collapsed from the arrows it's rider tumbling to the ground. Another of the horsemen fell as an arrow found his neck. A weak point in their armor then, Alfhild noted. That might be useful to know.

"Loose!"

From within the Eastern lines Fror rushed forward catching the arrows on his shield. He grabbed the rider that fell from his horse and dragged him back in line. The first rider to shout at Ivar rode behind his men unharmed pulled out his bow and loosed an arrow. He shouted as he drew another. Soon the two armies fired volleys at each other. All while Ivar's men advanced on the Easterners their shields high.

"This won't take long," Lastborn muttered as the spears met. Fror rushed about behind the Easterners line, shouting something to them. Not that it looked to do much good. Ivar's larger force ground into the Easterners. Shields cracked as they slammed their strange curved spears down upon them, but Ivar's guard did not stop. By the gods the display made her proud to be a Dane.

"Jarlkona," Bjorn said. "We need to do something."

"We will," Alfhild said. "Now shut up and watch the show." The sides of Ivar's force enveloped the Easterners. Even with their armor the Easterners died as Ivar's huskarls maneuvered through the formation and hacked at them with their longaxes. Fror tried to rally a counter-attack, but each time Ivar beat him back.

"Jarlkona!"

"Patience, Bjorn."

"They're dying!"

"Are they now?"

"Are you just going to- you're letting him!"

"This is what happens to those who sell out their people to foreigners. Watch, Breaker, in case you get ideas about disloyalty."

"May I take some of men to go aid them?"

"No."

"Please!" Bjorn's voice cracked as he tried to hold back his tears. It was no easy thing watching family die. Alfhild took a breath and continued to watch. But she kept Bjorn on her periphery and a hand on her axe. If the fool drew his weapon on her, well, she wouldn't be the one to bleed.

The big man clenched at the snow, his entire body shaking as he watched the battle become a slaughter. "You're going to wait until it's over to attack Ivar."

"Aye."

"How long do you plan to wait? When they march home? When they're drunk from victory? When?"

"When I see fit."

"That's it, isn't it? You're going to wait until Ivar can't even defend himself and strike then."

"Aye, no shame in that. If the fool doesn't put up a good guard that's on his head. The gods and the old ways will be satisfied."

"No," Bjorn said, his voice losing his tremble of sadness.

"No?" Alfhild sneered. "Are you going to lecture me on the Old Ways rassragr?"

"Old Ways or not, you know what men will say of this? They'll say you were a coward. They'll say you didn't slay a king, you murdered him like an assassin in the night."

"As though I've ever cared what men say of me. The gods will know my killing as true."

"Is that the song you want? Is that what you want the Valkyries hearing when they bring you to Valhalla? The old crone jarlkona too scared to engage in pitched fighting. Too scared to-"

"Enough," Alfhild grabbed Bjorn's hand and tugged it down away from his weapon as she lifted her own. The boy didn't blink as her blade stopped a finger's width from his neck. "No one would dare sing of me as a coward. I would pull out their tongue and shove it down their throats."

"You well might," Agni Lastborn said. "But I reckon some would sing it all the same."

"You're agreeing with him?" Alfhild snarled at Agni. "I thought you more clever than that Lastborn."

"Don't matter to me much," Lastborn turned his eyes away from her. At least he still knew his place. "But what Bjorn says is true. You think the skalds will be able to get a good line about waiting for your enemy to be weak?"

"Alfhild," Bjorn said. "You have the fate of the battle, possibly of all Danes. You can be seen as the greatest hero of our age. But only if you strike now. When the enemy is prepared for battle, when your actions save others."

Alfhild growled. "I won't be questioned." It was already over anyway. She could hardly see what remained of the Eastern forces. That will be the end of Fror the Deceiver then. No songs sung for him, that's for certain. Maybe he'd get a mention as a monster for Ivar to defeat. Before she kills him.

No. That's not what the skalds would sing. He can't beat the Deceiver only to be beaten by the Valkyrie-Born. He'd either beat or be beaten by the Winter Witch. Pigshit. Lastborn was right. Fuck.

"Ready your weapons," she said. "Today we kill a king." She stepped forward smashing her shield and axe together until the sound echoed throughout the woods. Bjorn jumped to her side roaring for the fight. The rest of the Giertvedt huskarls followed him while her own men picked up the roar.

"Javelin," Alfhild tucked her weapon into her belt and held out her hand. Lastborn pressed the weapon into her hand, smiling as he glanced back toward the enemy.

The sound must have reached the enemy lines. Those furthest away from the Easterners looked to the woods. Alfhild knew those looks well. She'd seen them on a fair few campaigns. The fear of an unseen enemy. The doubt of your own ears. The horror when the enemy reveals themselves.

Alfhild charged. Her men charged behind her. They burst through the trees screaming for the blessing of the gods and the blood of their enemies. Ivar's force saw them. Some men buckled backward falling over themselves as they tried to push those beside them in the path of her warriors.

King Ivar saw her too. He jumped from his horse and grabbed men shoving them into something that resembled a shield wall. But not well formed, not deep enough. And Ivar was close.

"Odin owns you all!" Alfhild screamed as she took aim.

"Odin owns you all!" her men took up the call as the javelin flew. "Odin owns you all!"

It caught the spearman Ivar was pushing into place in the neck. The king screamed as the man tumbled dead before him. _Fuck. Fine, I'll kill him with axe instead._

She drew her weapon and caught the nearest spear in its hook. She slammed the polearm to the ground without breaking stride. The man tried to drop the spear and grab the dirk in his belt, but she fell upon him before he got the chance. Her axe hacked into his shield, knocking it too far down for the man to defend her next strike against his head.

Red as beautiful and sweet as cherries bathed her. She felt more than saw the devastation her men caused beside her. A line or two of spears half breaking and not set to receive the enemy. She didn't need to see to know her men would do her proud. She let her eyes unfocus and felt Odin's guidance.

A shape moved her side and she raised her shield to catch the spear. Strike at the arm holding it. Strike again. The blood coated her arm and she struck again until it flopped to the ground. Another shape moved toward her and she shifted her weight. Sword this time. And another hand holding an axe. Block. Strike. Block. Block. As the hand moved back to strike again her eyes focused back toward the hand holding the axe as it moved back out from behind the shield. Strike.

She laughed as she heard the man scream.

Pain pulled through her calf. She tried to step forward. Ever forward. Always to her enemy. But her leg did not move. She turned and swung at the spearman pulling his weapon free from her leg. The man's dying cries danced with her laugh through the air before it mingled with the chorus of battle, more beautiful than the finest skalds.

She took another step, her wounded leg. She felt blood gush down her leg, but the bone was not broken. She could still walk. She would still fight. A spear thrust toward her, she ducked behind her shield and the weapon slammed into its front. She needed to focus. She swung her axe from behind her weapon and scratched at the length of the spear. As she felt the spear pull back she peaked over the rim.

Ivar moved among his line. Stepping out from behind his spears he struck at one of the Giertvedt huskarls. His sword slashed over the man's mail clad chin and cheek before it caught on the huskarl's helmet. With a shift of his weight, Ivar pushed his blade into the huskarl's eye using the man's own helmet to guide his blade. A difficult blow to get, no mistake.

Ivar stepped away form the dying man and behind his spearmen as he searched for another opening to attack. That would be where she needed to work to. Ivar. What a song that would be? The duel of king and jarlkona. The last holmganga of Alfhild Valkyrie-Born and Ivar King of the Danes.

"Ivar!" Alfhild shouted as she limped toward her enemy. "Ivar king! I have a gift for you!"

Ivar took notice and pointed his sword toward her. _Yes, Ivar. I'm your true enemy. You worried Swedes, and the Easterners, or about Giermundr and his sons, of the winter's cold and hungry bellies. Never thought of old Alfhild did you? Never thought I'd be the one to kill you. More fool you._

"Die you limp-dick fucks!" Alfhild hacked at Ivar's line while the king waited for her to reach him. If only the fucking soldiers would get out of her way! They put up a fight, that was true. But did they not know they were getting in the way of history? She swung at arms and necks, all while Ivar watched her draw closer.

"You're wounded," Ivar called above the battle.

"You're dead!" Alfhild snarled back.

The king shook his mailed head. "Do you remember the night I killed Harald?"

_Talk talk talk foolish king that won't stop me from killing you._ Alfhild continued to cut into his spearmen. Dodging and blocking what strikes the enemy made all while her leg shook with every step.

"When we celebrated, broke bread and drank mead together. My advisor told me to order you to go fight the Easterners, to seek your death. Too wild, too dangerous to keep close he told me." Ivar stepped through her soldiers and slashed down upon her shield. Chunks of wood and strips of leather fell. Alfhild lashed at him with her axe but the king stepped back behind his line.

"I should not have had him dismissed," Ivar continued as though a battle were not raging beside him. "Perhaps I was too gentle a king."

"Shut up!" Alfhild struck the last spearman between her and Ivar. "Fight me! Die to me!"

"If that is my fate," Ivar raised his shield high his sword hidden behind it. "I'd rather it be to you than the Giermundrssons. You may be moon drunk, but we follow the Old Ways. And by the gods I am feeling old."

Alfhild roared as she rushed the last step to the king. Her axe sunk into his shield as his sword thrust into hers. Ivar stepped back hacking with his blade to cover his retreat. The sword scratched into her shield, and the wood finally split. The shield collapsed into pieces. Alfhild hissed as she threw the ruined wood and steel at Ivar who slapped it aside with his own shield with ease. Alfhild drew her dirk.

"Yield," Ivar said. "Yield and I will allow your own to leave. I only want the Giermundrssons."

Alfhild roared as she threw herself at him. Her dagger raised to catch Ivar's descending blow. She felt the impact move through her arm, urging her to finish the fight quick. Her axe cut down biting deep into Ivar's shield. She stepped closer, until her body pressed against his shield. Ivar swung again, but she was too close. The blade whistled past her shoulder. He tried to reangle the cut, but it bounced harmlessly off her furs.

"Die!" Alfhild thrust her dagger toward Ivar's throat.

Too slow, perhaps they were getting old. Ivar lifted his neck away and the dagger struck mail. She lurched into the blow hoping that the force may burst a rivet. Instead the blade caught within the links of his hauberk.

Ivar slammed his shield into her ribs. Alfhild stepped back, her weak leg caught on something. She pushed her weight down but it did little good. She felt a burst of blood spew from her leg and she fell. Her axe slipping from her grip as she hit the ground. She howled as she lifted herself. But her leg didn't move.

She reached at what entangled itself around her leg. Her fingers grabbed at wet sticky hair, she pulled herself around to see her leg caught in the corpse of the spearman she killed. Horror etched eternal on his face.

With her good leg she kicked at the corpse. "No," she hissed. "No, this isn't how my song ends. Fuck!" Another kick and the body shifted revealing the pinned leg with her foot twisted around. She grabbed it and pulled it. Pain burst from leg all the way up her spine as she tried to pop it back in place.

A shadow passed over her.

"Well fought Valkyrie-Born," Ivar said. "I'll make certain you're given proper honors."

Alfhild grabbed the fallen soldiers spear turned and thrust, lifting the spear over her head. She felt the blow hit something hard, just before a sword clashed down upon her. Sword struck spear and continued down.

She felt the blade bite into her furs and enter in her shoulder. She lost her grip on the spear, but it did not fall to the ground. Ivar stepped back, his sword slid out of her shoulder. He dropped his shield and with his free hand clutched at where the spear stuck him.

"Good hit," he croaked as he pulled the spear from his thigh.

"Hah. You need," Alfhild said as she clutched her wound. "You need. To talk less."

Ivar stumbled, his back hitting the spearman behind him fighting against the Eastmen. "Fuck."

"My king!" a man rushed to Ivar's side. Armored. A huskarl by the looks of it. In his hand the reins for a horse. He wanted him to flee. Alfhild glanced around, but all she could see from her position was corpses and feet slipping on the wet and frozen ground. Where they winning?

As the huskarl talked she saw Ivar's shoulders slump. The proud king cowed. He pulled himself onto the horse. _No! Come back. I need to kill you. Who would ever sing for this?_

He rode out of her sight, his shouts for an organized retreat quickly became indistinguishable from the battle. She lay in the blood and piss, barely able to move. Legs followed him, some running, some limping. Some collapsed as they tried to scramble after the horse. Some brave few held ground while the rest fled.

"Still alive?" one of the legs stopped beside her. Alfhild squinted and lifted her eyes to see the man's face. Not one of her own. She growled as he drew closer.

"It is," the man seemed pleased. "Looks like it's me who kills the Winter Witch." He lifted a mace high.

No, Alfhild grabbed at the dropped spear. Not killing Ivar was bad enough, but she would not be slain by some nameless shitstain.

The man's head parted from his shoulders. As the body collapsed an Easterner drenched in blood, mud, and sweat stood behind it. He stared down at Alfhild.

"Mine!" Alfhild screamed. "That was mine! He belonged to Odin!"

The Easterner looked to her with disgust. He flicked his blade sending droplets of blood into the snow. He said something in his strange language and put his sword between them. Then he spat.

The wad of saliva landed a footlength from her face. That was an insult, no mistake. Alfhild grit her teeth and placed the butt of the spear into the ground. Her axe would not get through his breastplate, not likely at least. The under arm seemed weaker. That's where she'd strike.

She pulled herself up, leaning heavily on the spear to support her. She stooped to grab her axe before she returned her glare to the foreigner. _I may be dying, but I am still Alfhild Valkyrie-Born. And I will not be insulted. _She hobbled a step closer to the Easterner until they were close enough to kiss.

"You want to die slant-eye?" she sneered.

"Jarlkona!" The big blond idiot ran toward her. "Jarlkona, we won! By the gods we won!" Bjorn grabbed her, pulling her away from the Easterner. Her spear dragging behind. "You're hurt. Lean on me. I have you."

"Let go of me," Alfhild pushed herself out of Bjorn's embrace. She took another step toward the glaring Easterner, but could not right her spear. She fell to the ground once again.

"Wait here," Bjorn said. As though she could do anything else. "I'll get your healer. Just wait."

"No," Alfhild said.

"What?"

"This victory. Will the skalds sing of it?"

"The day the Valkyrie-Born drove off a king with only twenty men? Aye, they'll sing of it."

"Then it is a good death," Alfhild shut her eyes. "I wish I had killed Ivar. Who knows, maybe that wound I gave him well fester."

"Really?" came a quiet voice. "I must have missed more than I thought, if the mighty Valkyrie-Born is willing to just lay down." Fror the Deceiver came before her and nodded his respect. "You saved my life, Jarlkona. I do not know why, but you appear to have my brother with you as well."

"Shit, Odin. Take me now, so I don't have to listen to this snake."

"I'll be silent if you prefer, Jarlkona. However, I think there's a deal that we can strike and glory still to be won."

_He's just going to lie, isn't he? That's what Fror does, I should not listen to him. There's nothing left for me here, I had my moment of glory. I shouldn't listen to him._ _I shouldn't._ "What is it?"

"There is still a king that needs to be killed, and I know of no one better to aid me."

"Look at me, boy, even if I don't die tonight I'll be in no shape to fight."

Fror called for someone in that strange foreign tongue. An Easterner walked to them with a bag full of bandages and water. He smiled to Alfhild and began to wrap up her shoulder.

"It matters, because I am planning on the single greatest raid the Danes have ever seen. I want the best, and you are the best."

"I am."

"Your place in Valhalla is secured. But there is no need to search out your death, when there is true glory, eternal glory to be gained."

"Just tell me already Deceiver."

Fror smiled, and as he talked, Alfhild smiled as well.


	14. Mission 13: King of the Danes

Fror looked over the walls surrounding Harald's Hall stood strong. The wood and stone of the finest craftsmanship, the most modern techniques the Danes knew. Some ideas taken from the Christian's of the south and built up over the decades of Ivar's power. He did not want to be slaughtered by an army in his own home, just as he had done to Harald the Golden.

It seemed just to Fror that now Ivar hid in this hall, waiting to be slaughtered. No, not just. Whatever this war was, it wasn't just.

"What are you thinking?" Bjorn said, finally breaking the silence between them. Fror turned to look at his younger brother and immediately turned away. He could not bare to see the purple lines that crossed his face that would never heal.

"How to get past the walls."

"You can't."

"No, I most certainly can. I climbed larger walls."

Bjorn gave him a side glance. "From your time with the Easterners?"

"They prefer 'Nihon.'"

"If you say so. But everyone here just calls them Easterners." Bjorn squinted at the walls. "Your ability to climb them isn't what I doubted. You know what Alfhild is saying."

"She can't be the first to climb the walls!" Fror said, "For the hundredth time she can barely walk." Perhaps it would have been best to have just let the old crone die on the battlefield. Certainly she could be useful for what comes next, but now? She just had a knack for making everything difficult.

"She has her pride," Bjorn shrugged. "But brother, I don't know why we need to do any of this. When I was a prisoner-"

"I'm sorry," Fror shook his head. "I should never have left you. I thought you were dead. I saw the berserker drag you down." _Why am I saying this? Does it matter what I thought? I was wrong. I failed him_. "I'm sorry, I should have stayed. There's so much I should have done to keep us from this. I've made more of a mess than you know."

"Yes, you have," Bjorn grabbed Fror and pulled him into a rough embrace. "But we're together, again. And we won't abandon each other. And there is another way. Ivar and I, well, we talked when he had me prisoner. He told me he didn't kill father."

Fror nodded. "He would say that."

"I don't think he was lying brother. He thought I was captured, that I was as good as a dead man. Why would he lie about this?"

"I don't know. Ivar's cunning for all his other faults. But even if he's telling the truth. What does it matter?"

"What are you talking about? If he didn't kill father, then none of this needs to happen. We have the wrong man. We could offer terms of peace. We have a position of power here, we could make him agree to let us live in Giertvedt in peace."

_No, Toshimo needs the king of the Danes killed, and I will not give up my position when I'm so close._ But that's not what Bjorn needed to hear. "You think Alfhild would ever agree to that?"

"No."

"Then why bring it up. We can't let our minds wander about what could be, we need to focus on what's happening now."

"Because this is wrong."

"I gave you my oath, we will find our father's killer, and we will have vengeance. But we need to not lose here. I need you on my side Bjorn. We can't wait for Alfhild."

Bjorn sighed. "She's my Jarl-"

"Yes, I know, you owe her your life and you vowed to serve her. But, you must see what's happening here. Ivar has called up all his Jarls and freemen. They will all be marching here, and they will destroy us. We need to move, now."

"I can't. I gave her my oaths."

"Your oaths will get us all killed."

"If that's what fate has in store for us, then that's what will happen."

Had trying to reason with Bjorn always been this difficult? "Will you, at least, try to convince her that we need to move. We can't wait for her wounds to heal."

"I'll try, but I can tell you now that she won't listen to me.'

Fror sighed. "Very well, you sure picked a difficult woman to follow."

"Seems that's my lot in life, brother. I pick a jarl and all I get is difficulties."

"I-" Not much Fror could say to that. It wasn't fair? It's not his fault? No. Most of Bjorn's problems come from him, directly or indirectly. "I'm sorry, I never meant for things to go this way. And Helgi. I heard, and I-"

"Just don't. I'll tell Alfhild and I'll try to convince her you're right. But don't get your hopes up." Bjorn walked back from the walls toward Alfhild's tent.

He'll have to fix this. With Maeva and Rokr dead, the only persons he truly trusted in life were Bjorn and Bester. And Bester was not with him. He needed Bjorn by his side, he didn't know how low he'd fallen without him.

Later, he'll tell him, something. He'll figure it out later. Now, he just needed to figure out a way to get at Ivar before he calls all of Daneland upon their heads.

He heard a few shouts in Nihongo and Dane back by the tents. Sighing, Fror headed back to the tents to deal with the problem. Hashiba and one of Alfhild's huskarl, Olmo Fror thought his name was, glared at each other over a broken bowl of soup. _Oh good, I had feared it would be something pointless._

"Foul dog, you would dare to touch me and my property?" The samurai said in Nihongo.

"I can't tell what you're fucking saying!" The huskarl said.

"Your language is as ugly as you are." The samurai placed his hands on his katana and pulled the grip just enough for the metal of the sword to flash before the huskarl.

"Listen, squinty-eyes. That was mine, you pushed in front of me. I won't be treated like that. Thormund, give me my sword. I'm going to teach this runt respect."

"Thormund, don't give him his sword," Fror stepped between the two warriors. "Hashiba please hold your blade." He said in Nihongo.

"This doesn't concern you, Deceiver." The huskarl spat. "You're not my Jarl."

"True, but for now I'm there's."

"Then your man disrespected me."

"Daimyo Fror," Hashiba said. "I have this handled. I do not need you siding with these pigs. I will not be taken advantage of by barbarians."

Fror shut his eyes and took a breath. "Olmo, it is soup. Did he strike you physically?"

"He struck my hand!"

"Then I will pay you a quarter of your wergild myself. Do you find that suitable?"

Olmo gave Fror a suspicious look. "You will pay?"

"The standard amount. From my own hand."

"Where is it? Where is my wergild?" Olmo stood tall. "You don't have it."

Fror frowned, he'd hoped that Olmo would be a little dumber than this. "I don't have the coin with me."

"Thormund, my sword!"

"I am bored by your arguing. Stop getting in our way, Daimyo Fror. I will bleed this pig, myself."

"You're not helping Hashiba."

"My intention is not to help."

"Olmo, your wergild is right in front of us." Fror pointed toward Harald's Hall. "Made by Harald Golden, his treasure the greatest in living memory. Protected these long years by our enemy. So long as we don't kill each other now, we have all that gold and silver in our reach."

"That is not wergild. That is plunder, which will be divided among all of us, by the old ways. As my Jarlkona always does."

"Yes, but Jarl's take double, and I am a Jarl."

"A Jarl of nothing. Giertvedt is a ruin, and your thralls now belong to Alfhild."

"Yet I remain a Jarl, and so long as you step away here, I will grant you half my plunder."

"Half?"

"Half. You will be getting the share of a Jarl. What other huskarl can say the same? And what plunder awaits us. Think Olmo, a piece of Harald's Hall!"

Olmo paused. Fror watched as the huskarl's beady eyes tried to calculate how much that was before giving up. Olmo stepped forward and held out his hand. Fror grabbed his arm, and they both nodded. "I will not forget your debt to me, Deceiver."

"I would not expect you to. But I have a favor, to ask for this gift."

Olmo's eyes narrowed. "What favor?"

"I will need you Olmo. You are mighty and fierce, the other huskarl's respect you." Well, the first part wasn't completely a lie.

"This is true."

"Do not pick fights with these foreigners. Their ways are not our ways, they are too foolish to understand Odin's Oaths and the ways of respect."

"I could tell. You have given us oathless allies."

"Just give them a wide berth, and try to have your friends do the same. If we all kill each other now, we will never breach Ivar's walls and no one will get any plunder."

"I will try, Jarl Fror. But I promise nothing."

"That's all I ask."

"Are you done siding with your barbarian brothers?" Hashiba said.

Fror ignored him. "See to me after the battle, and I will give you all I promised and more."

"Thank you, Jarl Fror." Olmo nodded his respect and turned to look at the other Danes. "Alright, there's no show today. Back off, away from the Easterners." There were grumbles, but the men dispersed, returning to the boredom of a siege.

"What is this cowardice?" Hashiba called. "Do your strongmen cower in fear? I had heard that for all your inelegance there was at least ferocity with the Northmen. Sad to see your people are even less than I have heard."

Now, to deal with this one. "Hashiba, you are being discourteous and not being a good guest."

Hashiba straightened. "You dare? What would you barbarians know of courtesy?"

"More than you seem to. This is my home, Hashiba. You are insulting my people and my guests. You are being discourteous."

"I have been slighted. The barbarians accosted me while I got my meal, for no reason. That I did not behead him in that moment was the most courteous action I could have taken."

Fror nodded, for all their talk of nobility and honor, the Samurai did not act too different from his huskarls. Only they relied on a strange system of politeness. Over his travels with the Nihon he found their system guided most of their actions. It staggered him, how they could insult and fight over the slightest offense, so long as it was done in a way they deemed fitting their concept of courtesy.

"You cannot expect these simple barbarians to understand the error of their ways." Fror tried, thankful that Alfhild's force had no real translators with them. "They live, as you see, in dirt and snow. Harsh men, strong men, but not educated in the ways of true courtesy."

"Then why should I extend my politeness to them, when I know they will never do the same to me? Courtesy works both ways, Daimyo Fror. And your people are foul hosts."

"They do, and they will. But they could learn from your example. Teach them the ways of courtesy and the Samurai."

Hashiba stepped back as though he'd been struck. "A pig like them could never be a samurai."

Shit. "Of course not, but they could learn to look up to you. To see you as better than them. Let them see your nobility of spirit, your politeness of speech, your prowess in battle. Let them see the ways of the Samurai, so they can learn how much grander you are than they."

"Hah!" Hashiba, "You think these barbarians could learn from our ways? I doubt they can recognize true honor."

"What of me, Hashiba? Have I offended you in some way?"

The samurai finally let his sword fall back into its sheath. "No. You saved my life."

"I did. And have I given you any reason for offense?"

"No."

"These are my people, give them time."

"I will attempt to give them the respect that you deserve and be a courteous guest."

"That is all I ask, thank you Hashiba," Fror bowed to the samurai. This still felt wrong, the Danes do not grovel. He could feel the eyes of the other Danes looking at him judging him. They must see him as weak.

The samurai bowed lower. "I ask that you try to contain your barbarians. I shall endeavor to show them the way of true warriors, but my patience with them will only go so far."

"You have my word, that Dane agreed to keep away from your people. I shall try to keep the other more aggressive people away from yours."

"Thank you, Daimyo Fror."

The samurai bowed once more and returned to speak with the other Nihon. Fror took a deep breath and rubbed some sweat from his forehead. This could not continue. Eventually there will be a fight that Fror cannot stop and his men will tear each other apart. Before Ivar's reinforcements show up. And the only one in his way was the most violent and volatile woman in the world.

It'd be easiest to just kill her, she was wounded. A blade in the night, even the greatest warrior would stop being a problem with that. He'd killed for less, he'd killed kings for less.

Fror went to the mead tent, grabbed a drinking horn and opened one of the kegs. Too risky, if someone saw him coming out of her tent? And who could he trust with killing Alfhild except for him? If he couldn't deal with a problem directly he'd have to work around it.

Fror finished his drink and waited. It did not take long for the brothers Agni to enter the tent. Lastborn brushed past Fror on his way to get his drink, Firstborn at least stopped to nod his respect.

"Agni and Agni. Do you have a moment?"

"Can you wait until I get my drink?" Lastborn muttered as he poured his mead.

"Of course." Let him play his little power game. They can disrespect me all they want, so long as they do what I want them to do. Lastborn filled his horn to the brim, looked a moment to Fror and took a deep drink. He wiped his lips and refilled his horn. Only then did he step aside for Firstborn to get his mead.

"Now, what did you want?"

"I have a mission, for the both of you."

"Respectfully, you don't give us orders, Deceiver." Firstborn sat across from him. "Did Alfhild agree to this mission?"

"No."

"Then why are we," Lastborn took another deep drink "talking here?"

"We're talking, because the brothers Agni are who Alfhild's army follows."

"They follow Alfhild. Did you see her when we attacked Ivar? She killed more men than any two on either side of the fight. We all follow that."

"I saw. I have only seen that skill at killing once before, and Rokr is dead."

"Aye, and if Rokr were breathing down our necks trying to get us to go against Alfhild, maybe you'd have a chance here. But you don't. I'm not stepping on Alfhild's toes."

"Have either of you seen her, since the battle?"

"Yep."

"Of course."

"Then you know how badly wounded she is. The fact she can still use her arm is a gift from Frigga herself, and if she goes back into battle then her side will split open, again."

"Then she'll kill Ivar with her guts falling out," Lastborn said. "What's your point Fror?"

"We don't have time to wait on the Jarlkona. Our food supply is running out, and, my spies have informed me some worse news."

"You have spies?" Lastborn said.

"Of course," Fror lied. Bester had spies, and Bester was nowhere to be seen. "How do you think I was able to attack Ivar directly in his home? How do you think I was able to escape his home and gain these samurai? Just as wise Odin, I try to keep eyes everywhere."

"What do your spies say?" Firstborn sat back, his hand scratched at his beard.

"Ivar's reinforcements are coming. Could be tomorrow, or the day after. If we are here on the outside of the walls when they arrive we are dead men."

Lastborn put down his drink. "Are you sure?"

"Sure as I can be."

He gave a quick glance to his older brother. "Have you told Alfhild?"

"I sent my brother to do so just now. But- you know your Jarlkona. She's not one to let something like that intimidate her."

"She wants to be the one to kill Ivar."

_Of course, she does. She kills Ivar she'll use that as a reason for her to be Queen. Imagine that mad woman as queen. We'd all be doomed_. "She does, and she's more than willing to for all of us to die so long as she gets what she wants."

Firstborn nodded. "So what is your mission?"

"Tonight, I'm scaling the walls and going to open the gates. I want one of you with me to make the climb, and one of you ready outside with our warriors. As soon as the gates open, everyone storms in."

"Leaving Alfhild behind."

"If she refuses Bjorn. Yes."

"I don't like it," Firstborn said and took another sip of mead.

"I don't much like dying from being overrun by Ivar's other Jarls either," Lastborn muttered.

"True. Say we're with you. What happens when Alfhild wakes up?"

"We'll have a wall between us and her by then."

"Hopefully."

"We will. Ivar lost many men in our battle, and more would have deserted him. If it wasn't for Alfhild delaying us we'd be over the walls already."

"If it wasn't for our Jalkona, you'd be dead."

"I know that, and by the gods I vow that I will make things right with her. After we get into Harald's Hall."

Firstborn nodded. "A thought occurs."

"Go on."

"In this plan of yours, my brother and I will be acting as leaders here."

"Yes."

"Practically jarls in our own right."

"Practically." Fror nodded. He had them.

"Jarls get double the plunder."

"That's right," Lastborn smiled. "Double share."

"They do, and they also get first pick before the rolls are called. I see you and your brother going just after Alfhild and myself."

Lastborn whistled. The brothers looked to each other and nodded. "I think we are the right men for your mission."

"I knew you would be. Which of you will make the climb."

"He will," Firstborn nodded toward his brother. "I'm better at organizing men, and he's quicker than me."

"Good. We'll meet at nightfall. I trust you won't-"

"We ain't going to tell Alfhild. Of that you can be sure."

"We're not suicidal."

"Good. Nightfall, then." Fror raised his horn to the brothers then finished his drink. They did the same.

"Nightfall," Firstborn wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Lastborn only belched.

Not too much longer to wait. Fror left the mead tent and looked back to the walls. He walked up a small hill and sat looking over the city. The East gate would be the best to use. Smaller, less well guarded. But big enough for the few men Fror had with him to get inside quickly. Then where would be the best spot to scale the walls?

There were no obvious weak points as the Nihon Emperor's palace had. The walls may not have been as large, nor as impressive as that building. But they were new and well maintained. Stone foundations bigger than Bjorn with high wooden walls jutting directly out of the stone, leaving almost no spot for someone to get their footing. Any group of men would have trouble getting over. A full army would make a full mess of things. But a few good climbers? Maybe they'd have a chance. If he picked the correct spot.

"Fror?" Bjorn walked to him, shaking his head. "She said, 'no.'"

Fror nodded. "Figured as much." Then the Agnis are the way to go.

"What are we going to do?" Bjorn sat next to Fror.

Fror looked to his brother. He should be a part of the attack on the city. I should tell him. If only he wouldn't run straight to Alfhild. "We'll think of something."

"Better think fast, then. You think maybe we could try digging underneath it? It'll be slower work, but maybe Alfhild will heal by the time we're done."

"Could work, doesn't help us with Ivar's reinforcements though." And will still let Alfhild sit the throne when done.

"We'll need more scouts then. Place them more to the West. Ivar's army will likely come from there. The East will still have lower manpower after the wars against the Easterners this war season."

"Smart. We'll put that in effect tomorrow morning."

"Any ideas on your side there, brother?"

"Not yet."

"Alright, what's on your mind then. This is usually what I keep you around for." Bjorn gave him a slight shove. "Look, I'm sorry for getting a bit snippy with you earlier. It's just been tough for me."

"I know. Bjorn it's not that," Fror looked at his brother, truly looked at him. His body lined with scars where Ivar's knifemen hurt him. _One scar for every mistake I made_. "I'm so sorry."

"Fror, you're crying." Bjorn wrapped his big arm around him. "I haven't seen you cry in, well since-"

"Since Megana killed herself."

"Yes, I'm sorry, we don't need to talk about it."

"You never asked me about her."

"I knew it hurt you. Every time someone brought her up, I could see how much pain it caused. Everyone else always says your some cold shark-eyed liar. But, I've never had a problem seeing through you. So, why are you sad now?"

"Because I failed you, over and over. My own little brother. My sister. My friends. My home. I've failed you all. You all counted on me, and I'm the only one left unscarred."

"It's not your fault. I'm the one that said it was Ivar. I was so sure. So fucking sure."

"You don't understand."

"I do. Fror, I love you, but you can be such a selfish shit sometimes. The Sun doesn't rise because Fror Giermundrsson wants it to. We all had a hand in this. I'm the one that said it was Ivar, and I was wrong. Maeva was the one that led the Viking, she made her own decisions. And Rokr, he saved my life, and our people's lives. You don't get to take that away from him." He pulled Fror closer for a second. "Now, you are still the most cunning man I have ever met. So stop feeling sorry for yourself and figure out what we need to do."

"I'll try, for now just sit and help me look for a good spot to start your dig."

Bjorn let Fror go and gave him a brief smile. The brothers pointed out the best spots to weaken the stone supports. They sat until the sun fell too low to illuminate the walls. They helped each other up and vowed to do the same on the next day, until they found the perfect spot.

Fror's heart ached as Bjorn walked away. "Please, Frigga, I can't lose my brother, too. Please let him forgive me tomorrow."

The gods didn't answer. Fror sighed, he wasn't sure he'd want them to answer him anymore. Not after how far he'd fallen. But he couldn't stop that fall now, Fror the Deceiver needs one more night of villainy, then he could put it behind him.

Fror headed toward his tent and threw on his hauberk and tucked his helmet and sword into his bag. Just as he had done in Shin Nihon. His pack and shield strapped across his back he headed to the tent of the brothers Agni.

He pushed aside the tent flap and saw Firstborn setting Lastborn's mail and helmet.

"Almost ready," Lastborn said as he stretched about in his armor. Satisfied, he unwrapped his atgeir and rested the polarm on his shoulder.

"Firstborn, I want you to wait a little bit before waking everyone."

"I know what I'm about Deceiver. I'll have the men ready in time and not give Alfhild the time to stop me."

Fror nodded. "Don't wake up those that will run straight to Alfhild. We'll do this without them."

Firstborn nodded. "Wasn't going to wake up Yellow-Eyes regardless, the bootlicker pisses me off. Let him lose out on the loot."

"And my brother."

Lastborn raised his eyebrows at that. "Huh, thought he'd be in on this."

"No. He's with Alfhild now."

"As you say then," Firstborn shrugged. "We leave Bjorn in the tents."

"Good, we'll see you again at the East Gate." Fror held out his arm to Agni Firstborn. "Have luck."

"Have more, if you two don't get that gate open I'm going to be stuck alone with Alfhild. You'll have a noble death, and I'll be gutted."

"Oh, I'll make sure that gate is open, brother, don't you worry."

The brothers pulled each other into a hug, and gave a small headbutt as they parted. Two armored warriors crept out of the tent and headed toward the wall.

"You know where we're making the climb?"

"Yes, spent all afternoon staring at the walls. I think I got it figured."

Lastborn nodded and let Fror take lead. They sprinted to the underside of the wall, and pressed their backs to the stone.

Fror crept along the stone keeping his eyes at the top of the foundations. "Here," Fror held his hand up

"Why here? Gates further down." Lastborn whispered.

Fror pointed to the top of the foundation. "The stone juts out slightly more than the others, should give enough room for a foothold for both of us.

"On it," Lastborn stepped around Fror and held up his atgeir. The hook clicked and scrapped against the stone a few times, while Agni pulled. "Got it," Agni pulled the atgeir again and it stuck. He placed his feet on the stone and pulled himself up the polearm.

Only a few steps up and he dug his fingers into the small space in the stonework and dragged himself up the rest of the way. He slowly stood, wobbling on the small space he had. He steadied himself then looked down to Fror and nodded.

Fror grabbed the atgeir and set his feet and pulled. He placed his arm on the stone and got himself the rest of the way. His nose rubbed against the wood. Fror reached down and unhooked the atgeir and carefully lifted it up, handing the weapon to Lastborn.

Agni took the atgeir and reached, trying to push it off the top of the wood.

"Shit."

"What?"

"I'm too short." Agni raised to his toes. The hook of the atgeir still half an armslength from the top. Agni gave a short hop, his feet barely leaving the stone. The atgeir did not get close. Agni took a deep breath and jumped slightly higher. The polearm swung in the air, missing the wooden wall completely. As Agni came down his foot slipped from the stone.

"Fuck!" Fror grabbed Agni and pulled him, the man slipped half off the stone. His leg kicking at the foundation.

"Oh fucking shit that hurt." Agni pulled himself back up with Fror's arm.

"Quiet."

Agni kept one hand touching the wood and reached down and furiously rubbed his knee.

"Listen, jumping won't work. We need to do this steady. Here." Fror squatted into a kneeling position, with one knee in the air and the other balancing on the rim of the foundation. "Get on.'

"Oh, this is a stupid idea." Lastborn grabbed onto Fror's shoulder and stepped on Fror's knee. His entire body shaking.

"Can you get it?"

"Hold on."

Fror's eyes were straight at Lastborn's knee but he could hear the weapon smacking against the wall, and scrapping against the wood. He watched as the man wobbled. Fror tried to hold him steady with his free hand, but it couldn't help much. The scrapping of the atgeir stopped.

"Got it." The pressure of Lastborn on his thigh lessened, and a moment later the huskarl stepped off him completely. Fror stood, his body still as close to the wall as he could. He glanced up and saw Agni's leg as he slid over the top of the wall.

He looked up at the atgeir, stretching his arm toward it. The tips of his fingers a hands width away from the butt of the weapon. He'd need to jump.

Fror looked down at his feet and the little slip of stone he stood upon. One jump, one jump as high as he could. And if I fall? Well, then I hope Lastborn has better luck than me. Fror took a deep breath and looked back up at the polearm. He got as low as the fortification allowed and sprung high. He swatted at the atgeir, his hands touched the wooden pole and he grabbed it. His body swung about as the atgeir shifted from his weight. His legs slammed against the wall with a loud thunk. Someone must have heard that. Fuck. He quickly pulled himself up, his hands and forehead sweating as he got to the top. Keeping low he slid to the other side. Being sure to grab the atgeir he unhooked the weapon and dropped it down.

He hung off the side of the wall and let go. He landed on his feet, before his momentum carried him backward, and he fell on his ass.

"Graceful." Agni said and held out his hand.

Fror took the arm and pulled himself up.

"Which way, Jarl? Can't see shit."

"Hold a moment," Fror dropped his pack and pulled out his equipment. He strapped his helmet on and tied his sword to his belt. "East Gates. Come on." The two followed the crooked path of the wall until the gatehouse stood before them. The square room overlooked the wall, with a ladder to crawl up the tower to reach it.

"Careful," Fror said as Agni grabbed the ladder, "we don't know who's up there."

"Right, right." Agni hooked his atgeir over his shoulder and started the climb up. He moved slow, pressing each of the rungs on the ladder to be certain they didn't creak before putting his weight upon it. Fror took his first steps up as Agni slid into the gatehouse.

Someone screamed, Fror scrambled up the last few rungs, his shield smacking loudly against the wood. He stuck his head through the entrance hole and saw Agni thrashed about his atgeir as two guards tried to get close enough to strike at him with their axes.

Fror tried to get himself upright and dived back to the ground as the polearm passed over his head.

"Careful!" He said as he got back to his feet.

"Then get up here and help!"

Fror raised his shield and pushed at one of the guards.

"Fuck!" One of the guards struck at Fror. "Knut!"

"Hold them!" The other guards stepped away and lifted the horn that hung around his neck to his lips.

As he took a breath, Fror dashed forward and slashed with his blade. His sword struck the horn and dug into it. The horn pressed back into the man's mouth and snapped his head back. Fror punched his shield forward, catching the guard in the gut. The man doubled back over and the horn fell from his lips. One more punch with the shield toward the man's shoulder sent the man back until he hit the window overlooking the gate.

Fror pushed at the guard's shoulder forcing him over the window ledge.

"No! No!" the guard clutched at his shield, his fingers digging into the leather covering. Fror put his weight behind the shield and forced the man out the window. His scream cut off as he crashed against the ground.

"Knut! You bastards!" the other guard swung his axe wildly. "Help! Help!"

Agni slammed his atgeir down on the guard, his weapon bit into the side of his face and cleaved down until the blade tangled in the guard's hauberk. He clutched at the weapon for a moment before collapsing on the ground.

"The gate!" Lastborn said as he stepped on the corpse and pulled his weapon free with a slurp.

"On it, go check if anyone else is coming." Fror rushed to the ladder and slid down to the ground. Several long wooden boards were nailed across the gate, with several more angled against the massive wooden doors. Ivar thought they would rush in and try to hack their way through. Not a bad defense.

"Agni!" Fror called up to the gatehouse.

"What?" The Lastborn's head popped out of the small window.

"Throw down the guard's axe!"

He disappeared back into the room for a moment then returned with the weapon. Fror stepped back as the blade fell until it struck the ground. He picked the blade up and hacked at the barrier.

"Shit!" Agni yelled from his perch. "Hurry up, looks like they've all woken up."

Fuck. Fror hacked at the wood as best he could, kicking the chunks of the boards aside as they fell. The axe was not meant for splitting wood, and the blade chipped and bent. But it worked better than his sword ever would.

Fror hacked at one of the horizontal posts, and pushed his shoulder into it until it clattered to the ground.

"Oy! The fuck you think you're doing?" Someone snarled behind him.

Fror turned to look at his new opponents, three men. Brandishing maces, knives, and cudgels. Fror slammed the axe into another log in the barrier so it stuck into it. He picked up his shield and unsheathed his sword.

"Come on then," he said and tapped the front of the shield with his sword.

"Get him, boys!" the big one charged.

A large dark shape fell, landing on the largest of the men. His atgeir in hand, Agni pressed the blade into his enemies skull and they both collapsed to the ground.

"Hela take me, the fuck is that?" the other men shouted and stepped back.

"Fuck me, that hurt worse than I thought it would." Lastborn used the big man's corpse to help himself back to his feet.

"Come on, kill him!" one of the men, with a forked beard and long bushy eyebrows stepped forward and swung his mace at Lastborn.

"I got them, keep going!" Agni shouted and held his polearm out to block the mace. Fror nodded and pulled the axe out of the wood. He hacked away at the last of the barrier until only one solid bar remained crossing the gates.

"Got you fucker!"

Fror dived to the ground, the cudgel soared over his head. The man readjusted his stance and swung down at Fror.

He pushed back, his legs kicking up snow as he scuttled until his back pressed against the gate.

"You're not getting away shit-eater."

Fror grabbed at his sword and pulled. He felt his belt tear from his body. His sword, still in its sheath smacked aside the cudgel. Fror lunged forward, smacking his enemy in the groin with the wooden scabbard.

He exhaled and doubled over, still wildly swinging his cudgel. Fror kicked at the man's knee and sent him face first into the frozen dirt road. Fror got to his feet, making certain to press his knee into his enemy on the way up, to keep him from moving about. He unsheathed his sword and skewered his unarmored opponent.

Fror wiped his brow and looked to Agni. Lastborn swung his atgeir around his head, using the butt to knock aside his enemy's mace and slammed the polearm into the man's shoulder. Blood spurt out as his entire arm fell off.

The man screamed and fell to his knees. Agni smiled and lifted his atgeir once more. The man raised his remaining arm over his face, not that it did any good when the atgeir cleaved him from forehead to hip.

"Warning, would have been nice."

"I was a bit focused." Agni pulled his atgeir from the mess of the corpse at his feet.

"Fine, get over here and help me."

The two put their shoulders below the massive wooden plank and lifted. Grunting and swearing they carried the plank to the side of the gates and tossed it into the snow. They heard the thunderous steps of the people of Harald's Hall start to move. An army worth of men must be descending on them with all the noise they've made.

"Your brother better be here." Fror grabbed one of the handles of the heavy gate door.

"He will be," Lastborn grabbed the other. They pushed and the massive doors creaked open.

"Oy! Stop them!" Voices and shouting came from behind him. Fror glanced over his shoulder as he pushed. Hundreds of men and women, brandishing pitchforks and reapers, mixed with swords and spears.

Fror grit his teeth and pushed all the harder. He felt the snow piling up behind the door, stopping whatever momentum he could pick up. His body shook and he heard a clatter of mail as Agni slipped on the ice and snow and fell.

A spear embedded itself in the door a handswidth from Fror's head.

"Fuck!" He turned in time to bat aside another javelin with his shield. Too close now. Nothing for it, he'd need to fight. He brandished his sword. _Go for the ones with no armor first, as best I can. Hack away, always keep the sword moving. They likely aren't trained warriors, or only a few of them. Keep them away, keep them busy until I can't fight any more._

_Then they'll kill me_.

Fuck this was a terrible plan.

A hand grabbed the side of the gate door, followed by another, then another. The doors creaked open, and a warrior stepped forward covered in mail and a smile on his face.

"Figures I'd find you on your ass brother." Agni Firstborn tossed his longaxe between his hands.

"Fuck off."

Firstborn smiled. "Boys! We got a battle here. You ready for a fight!"

Men rushed forward from behind the door, weapons at the ready and armor gleaming in the torchlight.

No, this makes it look like Firstborn's plan. He'll take lead and the victory will be his. Fror looked about him and saw the javelin embedded in the wall. He pulled it out and ran before the brothers Agni. The mob stood against them, their expression a mix of fear and wrath.

Fror threw the javelin over their heads. "Odin owns you all!" he shouted the oath.

"Odin owns you all!" the men screamed behind him. His sword slashed down at a man with a trident, taking his hand off at the wrist.

The forces crashed around him. Men and woman screamed as huskarls hacked them to pieces. Fror felt swords and scythes scrape harmlessly across his hauberk. He focused on blocking the strikes that his armor couldn't handle. The maces and fortunate few that had atgeirs and spears.

One huge man wearing only his night clothes charged at him, with a large wood cutting axe. He lifted his weapon high and sent it crashing down at Fror's shield with a mighty roar. Fror stepped aside and let the force carry the man forward into his waiting blade. Too heavy an axe wielded by an untrained woodsman, most like. As the man stumbled forward and tried to heave his blade back up for another strike, Fror's sword carved through his flesh. A cut from his hip into his arm.

The man screamed and tried to swing his axe again with his left hand dangling from his arm, held together through sinews.

"Shit." Fror pushed his shield up to meet the blow. The axe smashed into the shield, bits of wood split aside as the axehead pierced deep, the thick rim jutting all the way through. Fror pulled his arm down and to the side, taking the woodsman's axe with it. The man stumbled as he tried to grab at the handle, and Fror cut down with his blade, cutting him from shoulder to stomach. The man opened his mouth, as blood and a sick gurgle spewed from his lips. His eyes rolled back in his head and the man collapsed.

An elderly woman screamed as the woodsman fell and came at Fror with a craftsman's hammer. Fror let the poorly aimed blade fly past him. Tears dripped down the woman's face, as she fought. Her wild swings easy enough to avoid until the old woman tired herself out. As one heavy strike hit the ground Fror took his chance and beheaded her in a single stroke.

His guts tangled up inside him. These weren't warriors, nor Christians, nor emperors. These were just people, defending themselves from the raiders at their home. Fror continued to strike at his enemy, his scowl growing.

One child with a shaking spear struck at Firstborn, who fought at his side. He smiled and grabbed the spear, pulling the child so small he could not have seen more than nine winters. Firstborn cut him in two with his longaxe, from head to groin. Brains, guts and blood spewed from the wound as Firstborn laughed.

Vomit crawled up Fror throat and filled his mouth. He swallowed the bile back down as he let some men stream forward around him. No, no. Another load of bile filled his mouth as he spat it to the ground. Whatever was happening to him, he couldn't show it. He needed to keep pushing through. He needed to prove he's strong. But he needed to get these people away from Alfhild's warriors and the samurai. Who seemed just as gleeful with their killing.

Fror stepped forward and grabbed the old woman's head from the ground.

"Run!" he shouted and held it high. "Flee before my might! Fror Giermundrsson will have you! Flee!" He threw the head over the mob. It flew to the middle of the crowd and smacked a short greyhaired man in the cheek. Blood splattered around him and he screamed.

The short man dropped his weapons and fled, clawing at those behind him that got in his way. Soon the boy beside him did the same. Then the woman in front of them. Soon the mob turned and fled a tangled mass of bodies that surged away from their certain death.

Lastborn hollered and chased after them, his atgeir cleave two in the back with a single blow.

"Wait!" Fror shouted. "Lastborn, hold!"

The huskarl turned back to Fror in confusion. "What?"

"Leave them," Fror started to head away from the mob. "We don't have all night, and we have more important enemies to take care of." He looked over his men. "To Harald's Hall! To the Gilded Hall, filled with Ivar and Harald's greatest treasure! We can deal with these cowards later. Now, we need to kill a king!"

A cheer rose from the ranks, even the Samurai screamed something, caught up in their own bloodlust. He pointed his sword the direction of the hall and led the forces through the city. Only the foolish ran from their homes weapons in hand and tried to stop them. They died within moments, nothing Fror could do for them. At least their deaths were quick and honorable. Let them rest in Folkvangr.

They reached the hall and found the doors barred and light shone from within with the scraping of movement.

"Ivar!" Fror shouted as his men started to hack at the doors.

"King Ivar!" a voice called from within. "I earned that respect, Jarl. for a few moments longer, at least."

"King Ivar, then. Open your hall!"

"Don't see much a reason to do that, Jarl Fror. In fact, it seems pretty foolish."

"You've lost, Ivar. Tell me, where are your wives and children?"

"Fuck you, Fror."

"Ivar, open the gates and we will settle this as we should have months ago. You and I will fight. Let the gods decide who should be king."

There was a pause. "Horse's cock. I'll open the doors, and you'll just have your men swarm in and kill everyone inside."

"By the gods, I won't do that."

"Oh is Fror the Deceiver giving his word? That's worth less than my piss."

Fror shut his eyes a moment. Of all the names to stick, it had to be The Deceiver. Thrall-Friend might not carry any respect to it, but at least is didn't announce that he couldn't be trusted.

"Fror the Deceiver and Ivar the Wicked. We both have been given names we don't deserve."

"Hah. Try and break down my hall, Fror. You may win but at least me and my warriors will die with our honor."

"No," shit he needed this done quicker than that. If Alfhild shows up and takes control of the situation. If those reinforcements do show up. There is no time to try and crack open the gilded hall. "Ivar, I have no desire to see your men die, with honor or without. But you're giving me little choice. Have it your way then. We're setting fire to the hall."

"What?" Ivar shouted.

"What?" Lastborn grabbed Fror's shoulder his voice a low hiss. "The gold's in there, you fucking shit."

"Silence," Fror whispered and pulled away. "I don't plan on ruining my share of the loot." Fror turned back to the door. "Torches!"

"Then what are you-"

"No!" Ivar's voice rose from the hall. "No. Promise me, my wives and children will be safe."

"I give my word, that I will not harm your wives or children. I will also not hurt your warriors, unless they attack me or mine. I do not have interest in killing them, King Ivar."

"Swear it, before the gods."

"By Odin's Eye, and Thor's hammer. By Tyr's missing hand. By my father's love and by the grave of my wife. I swear to you, I will not harm your wives or children."

"Alright. Alright, I'm coming out."

Shifting wood and ironed sounded behind the doors. Until they opened and the king of the Danes stepped forward. Behind him, stood twelve warriors in mail, weapons at the ready forming a ring around several woman and children.

The king stood tall, stepping in a way to control his slight limp from his wounded leg. "Jarl Fror, can I have a moment, with my family?"

"So long as it's short."

"Thank you." He turned to look at his wives and children. He gave each wife a kiss and whispered something in their ear. Most nodded with tears in their eyes or streaming down their face. Some clutched onto him, holding him close until he pried himself from their arms. Until he reached the eldest, who looked on with rigid austerity.

"Brynhildr," Ivar bowed his head in respect.

"My king."

"I hope I did my duties."

"Better than I had hoped. All my children still live."

"I gave my word, all those years ago. I kept it."

"You have. Coming to the end of it, you were the greater husband than Harald ever was."

Ivar smiled. "That makes me glad. Brynhildr, I have always sought your wisdom, and I must ask one last thing of you. You have lived through this before. Please, guide my other wives and children. Teach them your strength."

"I shall do the best I can."

Ivar nodded, and embraced his last wife. Fror saw a single tear roll down the stone-faced woman's cheek as they broke apart.

Finally, Ivar kneeled to his children and opened his arms. They rushed towards him, kissing and crying. "Enough, enough. Don't all of you cry, or I will lose my tears as well." Ivar kissed each of his children in turn. "I love you, no matter what happens here on in. We will meet each other again in Valhalla."

"I will avenge you father," one of the older boys said. "I'll kill him for what he's done."

"No. No, you mustn't. This is a duel before the gods, this is honorable and good. You will respect the outcome as their will."

"But the Deceiver is forcing you into it!"

"No, a man can never force a king. We all have a choice, and I chose this. Now, be strong. My sons, my greatest pride. You must all become the men as I raised you to be. Strong and fair. Just and honorable. Honor the gods above all others, and make a name for yourself. Your own name. When we see each other again, I don't want any of you to just be Ivarssons."

"We will, father," one of the younger boys said.

"I know you will," Ivar pulled the boy close. "And my daughters. Look how beautiful you've all become. Fair as their mothers, and cleverer than I ever was. You were all the joys that made my life worth living."

"Let's hurry this up, old man," Lastborn said and spat.

Ivar nodded. "I love you all, protect each other."

The king turned away from his family and faced Fror. "I am ready." Ivar pulled Harald's sword from its sheath and buckled his helmet straps. "May the gods decide the victor."

Fror nodded and stepped before the king. "Make a space, and no one interfere."

The warriors backed away from the two of them.

"Three shields?" Ivar asked.

Fror nodded. "No surrendering or calls for mercy?"

"Of course not."

Fror watched Ivar's wounded leg. _I'll need to force him to keep putting more weight on it. Relying on it for his movements. Wear him down_. Fror looked at his own partially broken shield, and went to his warriors to change it for an unbroken one. He stopped.

No. I can use this. Fror turned back to Ivar. They tapped their swords to the front of their shields and circled each other. The king prodded at him with his shield. The wood clanked and Fror's partially broken shield shook.

Fror moved his shield about and swiping with his sword, just enough for Ivar to not realize he was setting his shield up to take the harder strikes toward the hole.

"One thing I don't understand, Fror." Ivar said as he struck. "Is how you think you're going to get folks to follow you. You're not regarded as particularly honorable."

"They followed you."

"Of course, I freed them from that monster, Harald. But you? It's obvious you're only fighting me because you want the throne."

Ivar pushed his shield up and under Fror's own, opening him up for an attack. The slashed toward Fror's head, only a quick step aside sent the blow into the mail around his arm. The strike still stung as it impacted, but nothing fatal.

"You're wrong, I'm fighting because of what you did." Fror pushed his shield high, pinning Ivar's own then swiped low. Ivar jumped back away from the strike. Fror saw a small wince as Ivar landed on his bad leg. "You killed my father!"

"I did no such thing!" Ivar stepped back into Fror's reach with his shield forward. The rim smashed into Fror's own, shattering the shield into two pieces. "I didn't kill Giermundr!"

Ivar slashed at Fror's head with his following attack. Fror instinctively lifted his arm and felt the sword strike mail. Fror stepped close as he could to the middle of the fighting space and tossed the remains of the shield onto the ground.

"Shield!" he called.

Ivar stood just out of reach, waiting patiently for Lastborn to rush up with a spare shield before running back into the circle of warriors that formed around them.

Fror grabbed the central grip and nodded to Ivar. He waited for the king to advance, setting up his sword hidden far behind his wide new shield. As the king thrust out with his shield again, Fror stepped to the side making sure to strike at the shield down as he moved.

Ivar grunted as the shield smacked him in his thigh. Fror took the moment to strike at the shield, tearing apart some of the leather binding.

Again, Ivar came at him his shield poking and prodding, trying to open Fror up. Fror ducked low behind his shield and let the blade strike. As the blade hit, Fror pushed forward, sending Ivar limping away. Fror kept at him, punching his shield toward Ivar's leg, and strike toward his good side. Forcing the king to keep putting pressure on weight on his old wound.

"Clever, little, shit," Ivar said through clenched teeth. "I see what you're doing."

_You see part of it._ Fror lashed out once more toward Ivar's weak side. The king braced his shield against the impact and thrust his blade forward.

Fror raised his shield, but not quick enough. The fine steel found the gap between armor and shield. The sword struck Fror's face, piercing into his cheek, and as Fror's shield shot up he forced the sword higher. The blade tore up through his flesh and dug deep into his eyes.

Fror screamed and backed away. He felt the blood and viscus fluid of his eyeball run down his cheek and into his mouth.

"Now, I'm not the only one with a weak side."

A cheer came from Ivar's family. Their merriment cut short as Fror lunged forward and hacked his blade into Ivar's shield. He hacked and struck until a large chunk fell to the ground.

Ivar tried to slam the shield into Fror's head. Fror stepped away and let broken shield swing past him.

"Shield!" Ivar tossed his shield to the side, well outside the circle of the fight. One of his huskarl's ran forward to hand him an unbattered shield with an intricate design of Jormungandr drawn along the outer edge.

Fror frowned and headed to his side. Firstborn came to his side with a sweaty piece of cloth.

"Shit, Fror, that fucker got you."

"I know," Fror growled. "I felt it."

"No need to be pissy." Firstborn wiped the gore from the side of his face.

"I lost my eye. I can be a little fucking pissy." He wanted Bjorn, if this didn't work, he needed to tell him what he'd done. Everything about this whole mess they got in.

Ivar limped back to the middle of the circle and started tapping his sword and shield together. Fror pushed Firstborn away and walked forward. Fror and Ivar nodded to each other and took up their stances.

Fror lashed out first, continuing to hammer at Ivar's weakened leg. His sword striking high to force the shield down, or his shield mashing into Ivar's own to keep it pressing into the leg wound.

For his part, Ivar tried to hammer at Fror's blind side, twice his strikes scraped across Fror's helmet, but he couldn't quite get that same damaging strike.

The two stepped back to catch their breath. Fror looked at the blood dripped down Ivar's leg and turned the top of his boots red. He had him.

Fror let Ivar strike at him first and stepped back out of the way toward Ivar's weak side. The king lunged toward him, and again Fror stepped toward his weak side. He lashed at Ivar, a slow easy to block strike that Ivar overextended to block with his shield. Fror pushed forward with his own shield knocking aside Ivar's sword and smacking directly onto Ivar's thigh.

Ivar snarled and lashed out at Fror's blindside. Fror stepped into the strike using the force of his shield to bash down the arm he could barely see. He felt his shield connect with the sword and heard the wood burst. From beneath his shield he thrust his sword forward. Ivar stepped back with his wounded leg. His foot caught something. Pain twisted his features as he fell to the ground.

Fror kicked aside the piece of his first shield that Ivar tripped on and stepped on the king's wrist. He ground his foot onto the arm until Ivar opened his hand and released the sword of Harald the Golden. The king's blade. Fror tossed his own aside and picked up his new weapon.

"No!' Ivar's family screamed, several of the wives and children turning away. Others looking on in horror.

"Kill him!" the shout erupted from his men overpowering the voices of mourning.

Ivar gasped and looked up at Fror gasping for air. "I didn't… kill… Giermundr."

"I know," Fror whispered as he plunged the sword into Ivar's throat. "I did."

The king's eyes bulged, and his brow furrowed in a look of pure hatred as he died. Fror pulled out his new blade and wiped the blood from it, feeling the balance and ease at which it moved. Truly the sword of kings.

"Jarl Fror!" a shout rose from his people. "Odin bless Jarl Fror!"

"No," Fror said as he sheathed the blade. "King Fror." He looked to his supporters and Ivar's old huskarls. "As my first command, take Ivar's family and secure them in one of the larger homes in the city. See that they are well protected. Firstborn, I'll lead that job to you."

"Aye, my king."

"Be gentle, they have done us no harm. We are not murderers."

"Of course, my king." The Firstborn took some of his men and separated the family from Ivar's old guard and led them from the circle. Several of Fror's men laughed at them as they passed some even going as far as to throw dirt at them.

"The rest of you," Fror directed to the old king's huskarls. "You have all earned fearsome names and great respect. You will be treated fairly, but until I secure the city completely, I'll need you to leave your weapons and armor.

With some grumbling the huskarls did as they were told. Longaxes, swords, and mail dropped to the frozen ground.

"Lastborn?"

"My king?"

"Secure Ivar's treasury, we will divide it fairly among our warriors."

"Of course!" Lastborn stepped toward the hall, only stopping when Ivar grabbed his arm and pulled him close.

"Do not steal too much, yourself. Understood?"

"Of course."

Fror let the warrior go and watched as he ran into Harald's Hall.

"Someone, fetch a healer to see to my eye." Fror shouted over his shoulder as he walked through the gilded Hall. Beautiful art and precious silver circled him as he passed through the Great Hall of the Danes, and his new home. He walked to the far end of the hall and sat upon the Danethrone. Now, his work would truly begin.

* * *

"Alfhild is furious." Bjorn stood in front of the throne. "She demands more of the loot."

"Alfhild is always furious. She has received more than her share," Fror leaned back on his throne. It had been three days since Ivar's death, and Bjorn had barely said a word to him. Perhaps this meant they could put the unpleasantness behind them. But Fror doubted it. "This would be easier if she would just see me."

"I believe she is sending me, because she worries that she'll try to kill you when she sees you."

Fror sighed, "Well, at least she has that foresight."

Bjorn simply scowled. Fror stood up and walked to him, resting his hand on his younger brother's shoulder. "Besides, Alfhild is going to be even angrier with me soon enough."

Bjorn pulled away from him. "I thought you were supposed to be smart, Fror. You keep antagonizing her she will lash out."

"Of course, the trick is to make her lash out at where you want."

"What do you have planned, Fror?"

"Something that won't concern you. Besides, you won't be her huskarl for much longer."

"What?"

"You're my brother, more importantly, with me here someone needs to be Jarl of Giertvedt."

"Me, jarl of Giertvedt."

"Besides there is something else I need you to do," Fror whispered into Bjorn's ear. "We both know that Ivar didn't kill our father. Go back to our home, try to see if there's anything to show who did. We need to find our true enemy."

Bjorn nodded. "I'll do it, brother."

"There are two thing, I will need from you."

"What?"

"I need to speak with Alfhild try and get her to see me."

"I'll try, and the other?"

"Edla."

"What about her?"

"A king can't let people think he can be betrayed. Edla needs to be dealt with."

"No, Fror, you can't be serious!"

"After, she tried to get us both killed. Bjorn, this needs to happen if I'm to be taken seriously as a leader."

"Don't make me do this, Fror, I owe her my life."

"And she cost how many? You won't have to end her life yourself, only take her and send her to me. I'll do the rest."

"No," Bjorn looked to his feet. "I'll deal with her. A jarl should do their duty to their king."

"Thank you, brother."

"Is that all, King Fror?" Bjorn said his voice as hard as steel.

"Yes, Jarl Bjorn, that will be all."

His brother nodded and left the hall. Fror watched him leave. He'll make it work, he'll find a way to make his relationship with his brother right again. Once Bjorn fails to find anything about their father's killer, give him a few months to cool down. Things will get better.

There was only one more thing that needed to be done. Alfhild would fall in line when she hears what he has planned for her. Edla gone. Someone loyal at Giertvedt. One last loose end.

As Bjorn left the brothers Agni entered the hall. There was still time to send them away. Did he truly need them?

"Looking fair, king," Lastborn laughed as they drew close. He wore a new golden silver chain looted from Ivar's treasury, and several golden rings on his arm. The loot of a jarl, and he flaunted it before everyone with eyes.

"Welcome Brothers Agni. Everyone else, leave, I need to talk with these two, alone." Within moments the hall was cleared, leaving only Fror and the two murderers turned huskarls.

"What is it you need, my king?" Firstborn said, he did not display his newfound wealth, only another sigil of Tyr tucked into his shirt and a fresh shave to celebrate leaving the cold.

"As a new king, I need," Fror stopped. He needed to say it. He'd done so much for this broken so many vows, led so many men to their deaths. What were a few more? "I need-"

"So who do you want us to kill?" Lastborn said as he tapped at the gold embedded in Ivar's throne- his throne.

"I didn't say-"

"It is fairly obvious, my king," Firstborn said. "It's alright, we done this before. Our jarl before Alfhild had us killing freemen when it suited. We know the ways."

"We need to know names though."

"Aye, that's important."

Fror took a breath, no turning back now. "Ivar's sons."

Lastborn whistled.

"That's a tall order," Firstborn said. "Old bastard fucked a lot of women, sired more than his share of sons."

"You can't do it?"

"Oh we can do it, but it won't be easy."

"Didn't you vow not to kill them?" Lastborn asked.

"I did, but, as long as they're alive, so long as men can look to them as the true king-"

"You don't have to explain," Lastborn said. "I was only asking to make sure my memory ain't leaving me."

"Consider it done, my king." Firstborn said.

"Make it as discrete. I can't let people know it was me. Just have them disappear, make people believe they left to hatch their own schemes against me."

The two left the hall, smiling. Leaving only Fror alone with his throne. A map of the Christian lands clutched in his bloodstained hands.

Edit: Well, that's it. Thank you to everyone who stuck with this until the end. I hope you enjoyed it. This was a lot of fun. Please give a review, even a harsh one. That's how we learn to get better.

For those who want to continue, check out For Duty and Power: A Samurai Campaign


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